


Choosing the Path

by Manniness



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Japan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice had made a promise to return to Underland in a timely manner and, immediately following the engagement party and Lord Ascot’s generous job offer, she does just that! But when she arrives, she discovers she’s late... again.  (An AiW romance between Alice and Tarrant that is set Above.)</p><p>Written for the 2010 <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/">Aiw_Big_Bang</a> on Live Journal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

_“As you’re not going to be my daughter-in-law, perhaps you’d consider becoming an apprentice with the company?”_

  
It’s an intriguing offer, Alice admits. She could _imagine_ it: Alice Kingsleigh, a businesswoman of unparalleled vision sailing off to discover, to do, to dare! In fact, the offer had been so intriguing she’d very nearly accepted right then and there.

  
But she hadn’t.

 _  
“Could I have a week to think about it?”_

  
Lord Ascot had been surprised; her father had never balked at a new adventure. But her might-have-been father-in-law had agreed.

 

And now here she is: home again, having survived her mother’s acute disappointment in her during the carriage ride back to the city. After enduring a sleepless night spent with her thoughts and memories of Underland – her head full of everything she does _not_ want to forget... again! – she now stands in a room that is never used or occupied, always religiously tended to, and regularly visited by only herself. Alice considers Lord Ascot’s unexpectedly progressive job offer as she regards her reflection in the looking glass in her father’s study.

 

  
She thinks of high seas and the ocean breeze and import fees.

  
She thinks of irises of different greens and Tumtum trees and mad teas.

  
“Hatter,” she whispers, reaching out to the glass, as if by doing so she might be able to feel the fabric of his worn jacket beneath her fingertips. She wonders what color it is now. “I told you I’d be back.”

  
And, really, it’s _that_ promise she _must_ keep. There will be other oceans, other winds, other adventures. And they will be all the more interesting if she can share them with her dearest, mad friends.

  
Alice glances over her shoulder at the letter she’d placed squarely on her father’s desk. The letter that begins with “Dear Mother and Margaret” and ends with “I’ve found something useful to do with my life. Wish me luck.”

  
Luck. Yes, she very well may need it. But, then again, perhaps not. “I am half-mad, after all. Perhaps that’s just enough.”

  
She takes one more moment to be – to quite simply _exist_ – here in her father’s study. One more moment before she scrapes together her meager savings and hires a hack to take her back to the Ascots’ country estate and the rabbit hole. One more moment to remember, recall, relive...

  
And she does: once more, she finds herself wandering past this study door late at night, interrupting her father’s meetings, being put to bed, describing her wonderfully strange dream... And her friends’ faces come to her in that instant: Chessur. Tweedledum. Tweedledee. Mallymkun. Thackery. Bayard. McTwisp. The White Queen. The Bandersnatch. The Hatter.

  
“Underland,” she whispers.

  
And then gasps.

  
She opens her eyes as the strangest sensation engulfs her. Strange and yet familiar.

  
She’s falling _up!_

  
And, arms flailing yet catching nothing but air, Alice tumbles down two very _tall_ steps – has she somehow been shrunken again?! – and into a familiar opalescent room in what could only be the Palace at Mamoreal. This is _her_ room, she realizes.

  
“What...?” she hears herself mumble as she picks herself up off of the floor. She pushes her tousled hair back away from her eyes and glances over her shoulder at a perfectly innocuous bench seat and white vanity with its stately looking glass. “How...?” Had she fallen through the looking glass in her father’s study? She can’t recall leaning that far forward...

  
And then, as she glances around her, she realizes that it doesn’t matter.

  
“I’ve returned.”

  
Alice scrambles to her feet and hurries toward the door. She lurches into the hall and turns left, then pivots to go right, then recalling that’s the way to the balcony she’d shared with the Hatter and she really _ought_ to locate the queen first and announce herself, she turns yet _again_ and hurries down the pristine halls.

  
She peers through the windows as she jogs, searching the grounds for the queen, but only the trees wave to her with the help of a pleasant breeze. She passes the throne room – empty except for the echo of her clumsy footsteps – and heads for the kitchens. This is where she finds the White Queen, contemplating a jar of Wishful Thinking as she stirs a cup of no-longer steaming tea with a bejeweled spoon that, had Thackery been present, he would have no doubt been very busy admiring.

  
Alice pauses in the doorway and studies the pure white light that falls to the pristine worktable from the high windows. The queen glows in the illumination in a simple dress that seems reminiscent of simpler times and maidens passing an afternoon weaving summer flowers into each other’s long, flowing hair and whose tokens of affection are little more than squares of carefully embroidered linen.

  
“Your Majesty?”

  
Queen Mirana looks up, blinks, smiles. “Alice! You’ve returned!”

  
She grins. “Yes.”

  
The queen stands and drifts over to her, hands in the air, fingers dancing with the breeze that sweeps in through the windows and swirls around the room like a silent, delighted giggle. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you again! And so soon!”

  
Alice’s smile breaks as a puff of laughter escapes her. “I promised I’d be back before... before too long.”

  
By the knowing look on the queen’s face, Alice knows she’d noticed the omission and hasty substitution. She does not comment on it, though.

  
“Where is everyone?” Alice asks instead. “Why is it so quiet?”

  
The queen gently informs her, “It’s the Unshattermade.”

  
“I’m sorry?”

  
She gestures for Alice to take a seat. “The day that always follows a calamity... or a battle. The day we spend with our families in order to remember that which is most important to us.”

  
“But you’re...” _all alone._ Alice winces at her own tactlessness. “I’m sorry.”

  
“Never mind that, dear Alice. You’re here and so is Tarrant. A queen couldn’t ask for better company than her bravest and most loyal champions. Thank you.”

  
Alice glances up. She can feel the smile stretch her lips as widely as possible. And perhaps it’s the glow of the room that infuses her with energy and hope until she feels as if she might burst from it. “The Hatter’s here, too?”

  
Mirana’s dark brows draw together in a delicate frown. “Well, naturally. He showed you the way back, did he not?”

  
Alice’s smile dries up and blows away as the queen’s confusion does not fade, but deepens. In an instant, that glorious moment of happiness – of _rightness –_ vanishes like a Cheshire Cat. A terrible wave of dread rolls through her yet Alice forces herself to explain, “No... I came back alone.”

  
The queen simply stares at her.

  
“Your Majesty... where is he?”

  
“I... he... In Upland.” Alice hears the words but somehow she doesn’t understand. The queen continues cautiously, “You... have not seen him?”

  
Heart still frozen in her chest, Alice shakes her head. “No... no, I haven’t.”

  
Queen Mirana _slumps_ in her seat.

  
Alice leans forward. “Tell me. What happened? Please!”

  
In a wooden tone, she does: “He caught the vial. The Jabberwocky blood. When you... dropped it. And he finished it. We all thought... That is, he said he...” The queen’s voice trails off as she submerges herself into the memory of that moment. Just when Alice is sure she’ll be forced to rudely interrupt the woman’s thoughts, the queen says, “He said... well, honestly, there’s been quite a bit of debate regarding this point. Mallymkun says he’d shouted about a fez. Tweedledum is sure he heard him say you’d never tried on one of his hats. Yet, as Tweedledee tells it, Tarrant had insisted you needed a hat of your own. But as for myself... well, I thought he’d proposed... something else entirely...” The queen trails off with maddening delicacy.

  
“That’s all?” Alice hears herself demand when one moment and then another of uncertain silence pass.

  
“Is that not enough?”

  
It is. It’s more than enough to lead everyone to believe that the Hatter had been thinking of Alice when he’d drunk the blood and had disappeared. And they both know it. “So he’s...”

  
“Gone. To Upland, to _you._ Or so we all believed...”

  
“But I haven’t _seen_ him!”

  
The queen blinks, seems to return to herself, and tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. “Do you wish to?”

  
Alice gapes at her, at the honestly curious tone in the monarch’s voice. “Of course!”

  
The White Queen’s lips stretch into a slow but delighted smile. “Then all you must do, Alice, is _choose_ to see him again.”

  
“I beg your pardon?”

  
“The blood of the Jabberwocky will take you anywhere you choose.”

  
“So, I just have to _want_ to see him?”

  
“No. _Choose_ him, Alice, and you will find yourself there with him.”

  
“Shall I... do it now? I could stay with you for a bit first.”

  
“While I appreciate the offer, dear Alice, I would feel better knowing Tarrant is not alone. Not today. Not on the Unshattermade.”

  
Alice nods and rises from her seat. “All right.” As she had in her father’s study, Alice closes her eyes. But then she pauses and smiles at the queen. “I _will_ be back again.”

  
“I don’t doubt you will.”

  
And with that settled, Alice closes her eyes once more – with finality this time! – concentrates on his infectious grin and delightfully mad gaze and _Chooses..._

  
For an instant, she’s falling up again.

  
And then she isn’t.

  
“Hatter?” she asks, even before she opens her eyes. And when she does...

  
Mirana of Mamoreal is regarding her with a gob smacked expression on her lovely face. Utterly gob smacked... with a teaspoon of Horror...

  
“Your Majesty? What just happened? Did I not...?”

  
“You did,” the queen assures her, stunned. “But you _could_ not.”

  
Alice frowns, swallows, tries to ignore the vibrations of approaching Panic. “Why didn’t it work? Is he...? Am I too late to...?”

  
“No, no, he’s fine. I know. A monarch always knows when one of her loyal subjects... passes. He’s alive and well. It’s simply that...”

  
“ _What?_ ”

  
Mirana hesitates, and a moment later Alice realizes why. The queen says, “It must be that... he does not wish to see you, Alice.”

  
This news is... is...

  
Alice marvels that the queen had dared to defy her own vows – her vows not to harm another living creature – in order to deliver it.

  
This news is not something her knees can support her against.

  
Heart throbbing, Alice sinks down onto the nearest seat. In disbelief, she begs for clarification, “... I’m sorry?”

  
“Alice, just as you can choose where to go, you can also choose not to be found,” Mirana educates her. “Tarrant also drank the blood of the Jabberwocky. Therefore, he has just as much control over his location and find-ability as you do. If you cannot travel to him, then it must follow that Tarrant... is preventing you from doing so.”

  
“I don’t understand. Why would he do that?” He’d looked so sad when he’d bid her farewell. So sad and yet hopeful. As if he’d pinned himself to the promise she’d made to return before he’d known it. Or perhaps he’d pinned her promise to himself...

  
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Alice.”

  
The echo of his words from _that moment_ on the battlefield is excruciating. Alice pauses, swallows, fists her hands on the table and tries to think. And in a moment of Truth, she realizes that she has returned to Underland not only to see her friends again, not only to revel in the wondrous madness of this world again, but to see _him_. And without him, Underland is merely a land. It’s still unlike any other, and she still has many beloved friends here, but it is qualitatively... less now that he can’t share it with her.

  
And so she thinks – for it would never do to _not_ think. (She has a vague memory of being scolded by the Hatter – a very long time ago – for daring to declare that very thing: _“I don’t think...”_ ) But when nothing comes to her, she pleads, “What can I do?”

  
“Wait, dear Alice. You must wait. When he is ready, you will know. He will Choose to see you and you will feel him draw toward you. If you permit it.”

  
“Or I might go to him, if I were the one doing the Choosing?”

  
“Precisely.”

  
Alice stares at her clenched fists. “And in the meantime?”

  
“And in the meantime... live, dear Alice. I would expect nothing less of my champion. As would Tarrant.”

  
And because that is utterly true, Alice cannot fight it. Perhaps she does not wish to fight it; she has no desire to stay in Underland when he might be waiting for her in London. Perhaps at the train station or around the corner from her mother’s house or even now he might be standing on the stoop with his hat held under his arm!

  
“Fairfarren, Alice” she hears Mirana whisper.

  
“I’m sorry to leave so soon,” she hurriedly answers as the gently floating sensation wraps around her, as the not-wind lifts her.

  
“Do not be. Go. Find him. And return again.”

  
“We will.”

  
Mirana smiles and then everything glows bright and white. Alice has to close her eyes to shut out the brilliance of it lest her mind be scrubbed clean of every thought she’s ever had.

  
And when she opens them again, it’s just as she catches her toe on the edge of a rug. She stumbles. Falls to her knees and coughs at the dust cloud that’s raised from the depths of the Persian design.

  
She looks up and around the familiar four walls of her father’s study.

  
She’s back.

  
The morning light is still illuminating the office.  The letter she’d left behind is still resting on the desk.

  
Gazing at it, she feels her resolve return. She will try once more! Perhaps _this time_ – when she Chooses to go to him – she will manage it!

  
She closes her eyes.

  
She imagines him.

  
She Chooses him.

  
And after a brief, chaotic wind-but-not filled moment – could it be working?! – she finds herself nearly exactly where she’d started... only half a step to the left.

  
Despite the queen’s reassurances, she worries.

  
Where is he?

  
Is he safe?

  
Is he well?

  
What will he do in this world with no money in his pockets and only delightful madness in his mind?

  
Yes, she worries. She worries as she had when she had watched him give himself up to the Red Guard and she’d spent a sleepless night under his hat in the wilderness, when he had nearly lost his mind in the presence of the Red Queen, when she had left him behind at Salazen Grum. She worries as she had when she hadn’t known if he’d lost his head or had managed to keep it.

  
But worries solve nothing. Accomplish nothing.

  
“You must live, Alice,” she scolds herself, biting her lip and blinking the blurry heat from her eyes. “You mustn’t lose...” She takes a deep breath and shies away from the word – an M word! – that her thoughts summon. “... all that he gave you.”

  
But the expectation – the responsibility! – does not give her the strength to leave this room, to return to the world she’d thought she’d be leaving today. No, the weight of all the things she _ought_ to do cannot move her.

  
Anger, however...

  
The room’s scent and silence is not a comfort any longer. Her failure echoes, amplifies, and presses in on her until she cannot bear it. She snatches up her undelivered letter and crushes it in her fist.

  
When her mother sees her red, swollen eyes that evening at dinner, Alice informs her of Lord Ascot’s job offer from the day before. She could do something with her life. She could travel the world. But she would have to leave her mother and sister behind in order to do it.

  
“So... you are not regretting the... answer you gave Hamish?”

  
“No, Mother. We’re not suited for each other.”

  
“Suitability takes effort, Alice. If you _tried_...”

  
“But I won’t. My mind’s made up.”

  
And it is. The following spring, when she boards Lord Ascot’s newly built and christened ship – _The Wonder_ – and smiles farewell to her family from the bow, her head full of thoughts of adventure and trade agreements and exotic atmospheres, Alice spies a brilliantly blue butterfly. It lands on her shoulder. It _reminds_ her although she does not need the reminder.

  
She has not forgotten.

  
She has never forgotten.

  
And every morning and evening, she never forgets to _Choose_ him.

  
And every morning and evening, he never accepts her.

  
“Hello, Absolem,” she whispers, holding her smile together with an act of will.

  
The expression only becomes easier as he takes to the sky and flutters away, taking the memories with him. But not the pain.

  
No, the pain is Alice’s alone and, with her, it must, necessarily, remain.

 


	2. The Gala

“Alice, why must you insist on bringing a stack of calling cards with you? It’s a soirée, not a business luncheon!”

  
Alice bites back a sigh, replaces the cards in her handbag, and determinedly stares out the carriage window, not that she can see much in the solidifying shadows of approaching night. She’s come to hate carriage rides with her mother. Ever since that day they’d gone to the Ascots’ summer home and Hamish had proposed and Alice had fallen down the...

  
Alice twists her face away from the window with a sharp jerk of her chin.

  
She bites out, “Don’t start, Mother. We’ve been through this. You know I’m expected to recruit investors. It’s part of my job.”

  
“Your _job_.”

  
“Yes, my _job._ ” She opens her eyes. Glares. “And I enjoy it very much. Most especially when my _family_ isn’t trying to tell me how to behave.”

  
Her mother’s skills at the Art of Reproach are undiminished despite Alice’s time abroad. In fact, with only her perfect sister, Margaret, to keep their mother company, it had probably been distilling these last months. Yes, Helen Kingsleigh’s disappointment has been refined into the rare and pure form Alice experiences it as now.

  
Her mother’s retort is expected but it still stings: “If you’d behave like a lady, nothing would have to be said.”

  
“Well, _that’s_ unlikely to happen.”

  
“Alice...”

  
She holds up a gloved hand. “Please. Don’t. I’ve agreed to go to this wretched ball. And you promised not to fill my dance card without my knowledge.” _Again._   Dear ships and ceiling wax, _that_ evening had been an unmitigated Disaster!

  
“I did, but Alice, you can’t spend the entire evening _working._ ”

  
Alice’s irritation pushes her with surprising insistence until she’s braced on the edge of the bench seat. “It’s preferable to being treated like a prize cow at the country fair!” Alice leans away, closes her eyes, sighs. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had much patience for these things.”

  
“I know.” It doesn’t help that her mother doesn’t bother to mask her profound dissatisfaction.

  
Alice doesn’t respond. There’s no point. After every voyage, the discussion and the disappointment are the same. She knows her mother endures the pitying whispers and grating gossip that her youngest daughter’s choice of lifestyle has generated. Time and time again, Alice has tried to reason with her, urge her to see things as Alice’s father would have:

 _  
“Papa would have wanted me to be happy.”_

 _  
“I’m seeing the world and accomplishing great things!”_

 _  
“I know it’s unconventional, but I always have been.”_

  
Her mother hears these points and unerringly returns to the one objection Alice cannot deny or rebut:

  
“But you’re all alone, Alice. That’s not how you’re meant to live your life.”

  
She knows.

  
She _knows..._ but there is nothing to be done about it. Nothing she hasn’t tried already... and twice daily since.

  
The interior of the carriage is thankfully silent for the remainder of the journey. They arrive and disembark. As they stride up the stairs toward the warmly-lit home, Alice briefly closes her eyes...

  
Takes a centering breath...

  
Thinks of _him_...

  
Chooses...

  
Falls up...

  
And is Denied.

  
Again.

 _  
Again!_

  
She refuses to dab at her eyes. Let the other guests think she is blinded by the loveliness of the décor, the brilliance of the lights, the nostalgia at being back in London again.

  
Let them think what they will. They always do regardless.

  
Alice enters the ballroom and begins her task of making new business contacts for the company. She smiles. She charms. She laughs. But she does not dance. Her dance card has been hidden in the base of a potted plant this time (rather than under the tablecloth covering the refreshments bar or slipped into the umbrella stand beside the front door). All she has to offer is glowing praise for the company’s accomplishments, a business proposition, and an official calling card. Although her attendance at events like this one have been scattered and irregular, the London Society males all know Alice Kingsleigh is only charming when it comes to business... and never accepts invitations to dance.

  
She’s just excused herself from the presence of an older gentleman who had seemed curious about the company’s up-coming venture (but who had only been attempting to make polite conversation), when she sees something she’s grown heartedly _sick_ of waiting to glimpse. Something she would give _anything_ to lay eyes upon. Something she has been hoping to witness for _over two years_.

  
Something impossible:

  
A ginger-haired man in a top hat.

  
The top hat is wrong and his hair has been cut and when Alice realizes these two things, the disappointment is crushing. She wishes she could walk away but her strength is gone. She glances away – that much is within her power to do! – and just as she does so, he turns. Her heart skips a beat as this man who defies the custom of removing his hat indoors looks directly at her and she glimpses eyes so green in his pale face she thinks her memories will emote her on the spot.

  
He stares.

  
And Alice knows she _must_ return it.

  
With a measured breath, she does.

  
The man’s dark lips stretch into a smile, revealing an endearing gap between his tea-stained front teeth. His bushy – but trimmed! – orange brows rise and his emerald eyes unfocus with obvious delight.

  
He draws in a breath to speak.

  
Alice turns away. She pushes her way through the crowd, uncaring whose glasses she upsets and bustles she treads on. She erupts from the ballroom and into the hall. She glances at the front door... but no. That is the first place anyone looking for her would check. She heads deeper into the grand house, ducks into the kitchen, winds past startled cooks and servers, and shoves her way out the back door.

  
She slumps against the railing on the steps that lead down to the small but well-kept garden and wheezes. In truth, she does not see the steps. She does not see the garden. She sees _him._

 _  
The Hatter,_ her thoughts whisper again and again. His immaculate tailcoat and satin top hat and too-short, fashionably wavy hair... all wrong. But his eyes... his smile... his Delight...

 _  
It’s him. The Hatter. He’s here, Alice. He’s..._

  
She closes her eyes and grits her teeth. “Damn you, Hatter.”

  
“If that is what you wish,” a soft, male voice lisps from the shadows of the garden below.

  
Reluctantly, Alice opens her eyes and gives him her attention. “It’s what I wish I wished,” she informs him.

  
“With regards to wishes, it’s best to have as few wishful generations as possible,” he murmurs.

  
Alice looks him over. Despite the elegant suit, despite the unadorned hat that shades his eyes from her, it really is him. She’d know those twitchy hands anywhere, even in fine, white gloves. She’d recognize those shoulders that lift and lower with his every breath with only the tiniest candle flame to assist her.

  
“It’s you,” she tells him on a dry sob.

  
“Aye. ‘Tis mae.”

  
And how can she not lean closer, not brace her hands on the wrought iron railing and not try to gather more of his soft whisper into her ears? “How did you outflank me?” she asks.

  
“Th’ windae in th’ gentlemen’s pah’lor.”

  
“I see.”

  
He clears his throat. “I don’t think you do, Alice,” he lisps once more, daring to take a step toward her, doffing his hat and tucking it under his arm. He looks up at her. She stands on the landing and he a mere five steps below. The golden light from the gas lamps that had been lit in every room of the house illuminates the silence between them.

  
“I’m sorry, Alice.”

  
“You... are sorry?” she confirms, her gloved hands grasping the railing even tighter. “For what, precisely? For ignoring me, perhaps? For worrying me, maybe? Or, wait, I know: for not trusting me to keep my promise to return.” She glares at his shape, blurry and fuzzy through her tears. “Of everyone, _you_ were the one to believe in me first and foremost.”

  
He says nothing.

  
But that’s all right. There’s more to be said. “I went back the very next day. It was the Unshattermade and the queen was all alone. Worried about you.”

  
“Alice...”

  
“She thought you were with me. You’d given everyone that impression when you left, hadn’t you? Was that part of your plan? What was the plan? And why ruin it all now? You’ve been hiding for _years_ , gotten quite good at it, I’m sure!”

  
“Alice, please.”

 _  
Please what?_ she wants to ask but her previous words had been too sharp; her throat feels as if it has been shredded, her vocal chords severed. She should turn around and head back inside. She should run down these stairs and throw her arms around him. She should demand answers. She should require apologies. She should... She should...

  
“Alice, I’m sae ver’sorry I caused ye teh worry. ‘Twas nae mae intention.”

  
“What,” she hears herself ask on a whisper that’s nearly a gargle with tears, “was your intention?”

  
He takes a step closer. “Why di’ye return teh Underland sae hastenly?”

  
Alice shakes her head. She will not tell him that. She will not say what he already knows to be true: she’d returned because she’d promised him she would. She can’t bear to be laid open so completely. Not by him.

  
“Alice?”

  
She closes her eyes for an instant, torn. She wants to run, escape; she longs for the safety and anonymity of the ballroom. And yet, if she turns away from him now she dreads it will be the last time she ever sees him.

  
“Damn you, Alice,” she whispers.

  
“ _Nae!_ ” The Hatter’s urgent protest brings him to the bottom step. “D’nae say tha’... ne’er say tha’, Alice.”

  
And because she can think of nothing else to say, she says nothing.

  
She sniffles as discreetly as possible, but of course he notices. He notices everything. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dares to hold it out to her. She considers denying him, ignoring him, allowing the tears to flow and her nose to run... but nothing will be gained by being difficult now. Nothing except a sticky mess.

  
Alice leans down and collects the fabric then tends to her leaking sinuses.

  
He smiles gently up at her.

  
“You’ve kept your muchness,” he observes in his most courteous dialect and she has to bite her lip to keep from letting loose a sob at that. “You’ve become very successful, in fact. Quite well-known in your city. In your world...”

 _  
For all the wrong reasons,_ she silently corrects him.

  
“You’ve traveled. I can’t remember the names of all the places, but Hong Kong? India? China?” She nods and he smiles. “I’m so _proud_ of you, Alice.”

  
Alice locks her jaw together to keep silent, clutches the railing to keep herself from flying down the steps and into his arms. How is it that this man who has rejected her twice a day for years – who has pushed her away as easily as breathing – dares to be the _first_ to utter those words to her? Not even Lord Ascot has ever said...

 _  
How dare you!_ she wants to scream.

  
Wants to, but can’t.

  
“Why are—you—here?” she manages on a hitching breath.

  
“I was invited,” he answers simply. “It’s my first gala, actually. Do you attend many? If I’d managed to merit an invitation sooner perhaps we might have... that is, perhaps I wouldn’t have kept you waiting quite so long.”

  
He has the decency to look abashed at that. Alice barely notices. His words kick something loose in her memory. “Waiting,” she wonders aloud. “Is that what this was all about? I kept you waiting for so long you had to kill Time and now it’s your turn to repay the favor?”

  
The Hatter twitches as if she’d shouted in his face. She hadn’t. It had been a dull whisper. She knows this because the sound of her voice does not echo against the garden walls or the side of the grand house. The sound of it falls like a misting rain and is absorbed into the earth and foliage.

  
“No, Alice. No. I came as quickly as I could.”

  
“Well. You’re late,” she informs him.

  
His entire being seems to still at those words. “Am I?”

  
She doesn’t answer. The pain in his eyes, the fear, the _dread_ captivate her.

  
“Am I _too_ late?” He places a hand on the railing and pulls himself up onto the lowest step. “ _Unforgivably_ late, Alice?”

  
She gazes into his soulful green eyes. They’re the same as always, right pupil larger than the other, slightly lazier than the other, his right iris ringed with a hint of red madness. His gaze pleads with her. His throat works. Perhaps it fights against a case of too many words.

  
“Alice?” he breathes.

  
“What do you want from me?” The question escapes her so suddenly she startles herself.

  
The Hatter climbs one more step. “Alice...” he says, his eyes studying her face as if she holds the secrets of the universe in the shape of her eyes, the bridge of her nose, the seam of her mouth.

  
He’s still three steps away but he leans toward her, one hand gripping the railing as desperately as her own and the other curling closed and then slowly opening again and again at his side. The moment lengthens as she waits for his answer.

  
And then the kitchen door opens.

  
“Alice!”

  
She startles at her mother’s appearance and frowns at the reprimand.

  
“What on earth are you doing out here?” At this point, her mother’s eyes narrow as she takes in Alice’s reddened eyes and nose and the used handkerchief in her gloved hand. She then leans around her daughter’s shoulder and spies the handkerchief’s owner. “What is the meaning of this?”

  
The Hatter takes a deep breath.

  
Alice hurriedly interrupts. “Mother, everything’s fine. I just received a shock. I thought... that is, I’d heard that...” She takes a moment to breathe and forces herself to remain calm. “Mother, this is Tarrant Hightopp. We met some years ago and, until just now – when I saw him inside – I’d been under the mistaken impression that something... unfortunate had happened to him. I’m sorry I caused a scene.”

  
Helen Kingsleigh raises her brows at her daughter. She then holds out her hand to the man on the steps. “Mr. Hightopp. A pleasure to finally meet you. Your creations have become something of a legend.”

  
“Thank you, madam. I couldn’t be happier to make your acquaintance.”

  
Alice gawks at her mother. How is it that her own mother knows of not only Tarrant’s name but his reputation and yet she had never mentioned either to Alice?

  
“Alice, if you’d like to retire for the night, I’ll send for the carriage and make our excuses.”

  
“Excuses?”

  
“The Duchess thought perhaps you had a sudden case of food poisoning. I’ll let her know you’re fine, but tired.”

  
Bemused, Alice nods.

  
“Mr. Hightopp, if you would be so kind as to see Alice around to the front of the house, I’ll join you both presently.”

  
The Hatter bows. “It would be an honor, madam.”

  
As she turns to head back inside through the back door, Alice’s mother sends her a piercing look. She knows that look. That’s the _Be Sociable, Alice!_ look. That’s the look her mother has perfected in order to signal that Alice is in the presence of a very acceptable and unattached male.

  
For a moment, Alice’s mind is utterly blank with shock. Never, in all of Alice’s wildest dreams, had she ever dared to imagine her mother would be _encouraging_ her continued association with the Hatter...

  
The door closes and they’re alone again. For a long moment, no one speaks. Moves.

  
“Alice?”

  
She gives herself a small shake and turns back to him. “Hatter?”

  
Warily, he offers her his arm. “Would you... like me to see you around to the front?”

  
“I’m not sure,” she answers honestly. “Will it be the last time I see you for another two years and some-odd months?”

  
“Two years, seven months, nineteen days, and – if I’ve calculated the time difference and taken leap year into account correctly – sixteen and a quarter hours.” His lips twitch up into a nervous smile. “And no, you may see me as often as you wish it. If you wish it.”

  
Still, she doesn’t move.

  
“Alice?” he inquires softly, his elbow still held out to her. “Do you wish it?”

  
“I don’t know. I still don’t understand...” If he had been counting the years, months, days, and hours since he’d last seen her, why had he refused to let her _go_ to him even _once_ during that time?

  
“Alice,” he says on an exasperated sigh. “We’ve had a discussion similar to this before. Just as stating that you don’t think is hardly a discerning comment, neither is announcing that you lack acumen.”

  
She has to search her short term memory for the comment that must have sparked that observation...

 _  
Ah!_

 _  
“I don’t know...”_

  
That must have been it. She snorts inelegantly.

  
“Great galumphing Bandersnatches,” Alice replies with a wry grin. “You _are_ , without a doubt, the most pedantic man I’ve ever met.”

  
He grins and Alice watches as his confidence seems to restore itself inexplicably. “Why, thank you, Alice. And on that point, I shall endeavor never to disappoint you.”

  
“See that you don’t,” she warns him with a burgeoning smile and, finally, places her hand on his arm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Victorian Calling Cards :: There is no evidence suggesting that calling cards were used during the Victorian Era as I describe them. (Actually, there’s quite a lot of data to the contrary.) There did exist Victorian Era business cards, but in order to differentiate between modern and Victorian times, I’ve chosen to use the name “calling card” just to keep things in the proper “setting”. I didn’t want to use the phrase “business card” and then have readers imagining a modern business card! Business cards were quite different in Alice’s time – larger, for one thing. And, anyway, I just like the name “calling card” better than “business card”... it’s cool, m’kay? (^__~)b
> 
> 2\. "I don’t think..." :: In Chapter 7 of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, Alice begins a comment with “I don’t think...” and the Hatter takes it quite literally and reprimands her:
> 
> “I don’t think—”
> 
> “Then you shouldn’t talk,” said the Hatter.
> 
> In the first chapter of this story, Alice has a vague recollection of this. And, in the second chapter, we have Tarrant reprimanding her when she states, “I don’t know.” Obviously, she ought to quantify exactly what it is she doesn’t know because one can’t not know everything. But how can you state what you don’t know? If you could state it, it would imply that you knew it, yes? Dear me, this Underlandian logic kills my brain.


	3. The Consultant

“Where to now, Mr. Cawlsworth?”

  
The company’s most recent apprentice shuffles through a veritable _novel’s_ worth of unbound documents and squints at the notes thereon. “Er, it appears we’ll be heading to the fashion district, Miss Kingsleigh.”

  
“Which shop?”

  
Again, there’s a great deal of more nerve-grating shuffling. Alice is beginning to suspect that being away at sea most of the year negotiating and overseeing the setup and management of trade posts has put her at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to the London office personnel. She’d assumed that Lord Ascot had suggested she have Cawlsworth perform the duties of her assistant because the man – no, _boy!_ – is a fount of efficiency. But now she realizes it’s far more likely that here sits the son or nephew of a major investor and Lord Ascot simply wants the lad out from underfoot for a day.

  
Alice suspects she would have gotten considerably more accomplished and in a much more _timely_ manner had she refused his services and simply gone out to visit each of Lord Ascot’s consultants by herself. Already they’re behind schedule and they’ve only met with the glass and pottery expert and the spice and dried goods distributor thus far!

 _  
This day will never end at this rate,_ Alice grouses in silence.

  
She sighs. “Mr. Cawlsworth? The shop name?”

  
“Shop? Oh, well, actually, it appears I’m... unable to decipher my own handwriting, Miss Kingsleigh.”

  
Alice arcs a brow at him.

  
“I must have copied the schedule while on the train so I...” He clears his throat and hurriedly assures her, “But I’ve given the address to the driver.”

  
“The illegible address?” is her sarcastic grumble.

  
“What was that? This traffic is dreadfully loud!”

  
“Never mind.”

  
Alice leans back in her seat and lets her eyes rest upon the various gray, rainy scenes that roll by the carriage window. In truth, she’s not all that upset about walking into this meeting more or less blind. She’s had to deal with many similar situations in the past. At least this time she can be reasonably confident that there will not be any language barriers present!

 _  
And yet_ , she muses, as her memories of the previous weekend’s gala return to her, _even while speaking English, one can say utter nonsense._

  
The Hatter is rather skilled at that, actually. He never had told her why he’d never permitted her to find him. He’d never told her what, exactly, it is he wants or hopes to accomplish here in London. She sighs and shakes her head. The man is mad, true. But mad like a fox. It seems odd that he hadn’t even given her a riddle in exchange for her questions:

  
What had been his intention in keeping her away for so long?

 _  
“Why di’ye return teh Underland sae hastenly?”_

  
What does he want from her?

 _  
“Alice...”_

  
Bloody-minded, vague, evasive, mad...

  
She closes her eyes and tries to think of something else other than _him._ She doesn’t. Can’t. He follows her, stalks her thoughts.

 _  
The Hatter is_ _ **here!**_ _In_ _ **London!**_ her mind screams at her then proceeds to show her image after image of him: his delighted grin, his soulful eyes, his twitching hands, his searching gaze. The torture is relentless.

 _  
Stop this!_ she commands herself. _You have his card. You’ll see him again when you have time!_

  
Yes. So there’s really no need to dwell on how fit and dashing he’d looked in that well-cut suit. (Disturbingly so!) There’s no reason to contemplate the gravity with which he’d approached her on those steps, as if he’d been a supplicant daring to submit himself to the Oracle at Delphi. (He’d entranced her in that moment!) There’s no point in considering his non-answers to her inquiries. (Frustratingly, aggravatingly Hatter-ish of him!)

  
Listless, irritated, and curious – a potentially dangerous combination in a carriage on a stormy day – Alice pulls the Hatter’s calling card from her satchel and turns it over in her hands. There’s just enough diffused light for her to read it but not enough for it to be easily viewed by a certain nosy assistant.

  
Unlike many other calling cards she’s seen, there is no photograph. In fact, there is not much of anything at all. An address in the center with a vague sketch of _The Wonder_ on the left and a shape that resembles the castle at Mamoreal on the right. Her accomplishments and her dream are both here... with an address, presumably to his shop, in between.

  
“Call on me at any time, Alice. I am at your disposal, as they say,” he’d murmured, standing with her out in front of the grand house. She’d accepted the card rather than revisit the topic of his incomprehensible reluctance to see her prior to this gala.

  
“But please, do not dispose of me too... rashly.”

  
She’d looked up at that and into his hopeful gaze. Beneath her gloved hand his arm had been so warm and solid and strong and _real_ despite the layers of fabric. The breeze had warmed as it had passed him and caressed her face. She had even managed to breathe in at just the right moment and had caught his scent...

  
He had said nothing else, but his eyes had spoken. They’d told her so many things that she can barely stand to remember them, for each and every one of them conflicts with her experience:

 _  
I’ve missed you…_ And yet he had Refused her again and again.

 _  
You fascinate me..._ And yet he had not trusted her.

 _  
I see the world in you..._ And yet he had built his own – separate and mysterious – without her knowledge or assistance.

  
They’d waited in weighted, nearly-bursting silence until her mother had stepped out of the house and then Tarrant had helped them both into the carriage, bowing farewell.

  
“Mr. Hightopp has studios in Paris, Vienna, and Milan as well,” her mother had commented on the way home.

  
“Hm.”

  
“Invite him over for dinner this weekend.”

  
“I’ll think about it.”

  
“Well, he knows how to contact you doesn’t he? You _did_ give him one of those ridiculous cards you’re always carrying around?”

  
Alice had shaken her head. “He gave me his.”

  
“Well, then it’s all settled. I’ll have the cook prepare something acceptable for dinner on Saturday.”

  
Alice hadn’t had the strength to argue. And, thankfully, her mother had been too satisfied to do more than _bask_ in what she’d seen as Alice’s good fortune.

  
Alice looks down at the card in her gloved hands. She’s almost afraid to touch it with her bare skin. Suppose it crumbles to dust at the slightest brush of her fingertips? Suppose she wakes up when it does? Suppose there had been no gala, no too-civilized Hatter, no end to her unendurable wait?

  
The carriage begins to slow and, mindful of the rain, Alice tucks the Hatter’s card carefully away in her leather satchel. As Cawlsworth opens the door and then opens the umbrella, Alice leans around him to get a better look at the establishment. She can’t see the sign from this angle, but the windows are cheerful with colors: bolts of exotic fabrics, dresses, suits, hats of all sorts.

  
They dash from the carriage into the shop and Alice is startled by the... vacuity of it. There are mirrors everywhere, lining the outside of various cherrywood wardrobe doors. Changing rooms. A sitting area. Even a tea table and cart. But there are no wares displayed here. Alice regards the well-lit, comfortable room with raised brows. Even when her father had been enjoying the height of his business’s success, she and her mother and sister would never have been able to afford _one_ dress – much less one for _each_ of them! – from a place like this, a place where everything – every detail right down to the buttons and lace and embroidery thread – is completely and utterly custom-made to suit each individual client’s tastes.

  
“May I help you?”

  
Alice turns and smiles at the older man who steps out from behind a well-concealed office door to greet them. “Good afternoon. I’m Alice Kingsleigh,” she introduces herself, extending her hand. “I’ve an appointment with the proprietor on behalf of Lord Ascot, my employer.”

  
“Ah, yes, thank you for coming,” the elderly clerk greets them, bowing over her gloved fingers. “He’s expecting you. If you’ll come this way?”

  
With Cawlsworth trailing (and crumpling and rustling the documents he can’t seem to successfully confine to his briefcase) behind her with each step, Alice beings to wonder if it would be unduly cruel to send him out for lunch. (And if they’d managed to stay on schedule today, Alice would have had time to eat something prior to this appointment!) Although, with Cawlsworth’s propensity for paper, he’d undoubtedly return with something wrapped in the morning news and about as appetizing...

  
“I hope we won’t be inconveniencing any of your clientèle today,” Alice begins sincerely as they follow their guide. “We _are_ terribly late...”

  
“It’s no trouble at all. Today’s schedule has been cleared for your visit.”

  
“I... it has?”

  
“Yes, madam.” The stately, silver-haired man pauses beside a cherrywood panel that must be a door but Alice can see no handles or hinges to mark it as such. “I think you’ll find that my employer is quite... _committed_ to this venture of yours.”

  
Before Alice can thank him for the reassurance, he pushes open the door and Alice glances within. There, on the other side of a magnificently fine tea table with a silver tea service laid out, a man with ginger hair and wearing a fabulously blue top hat stands from the head of the table.

  
“Alice!” he exclaims. At her side, Cawlsworth visibly shrinks in the presence of such enthusiasm.

  
“Yes, it’s me,” she manages and is struck by the parallel between this meeting and the last tea party she’d been dreadfully tardy for. And, for one crazily, breathlessly warped moment, she almost expects him to climb up onto the seat of his chair and tromp down the table top toward her.

  
However, the Hatter does not clamor onto the table and stomp through the fine, silver tea setting. He navigates _around_ it with lithe grace and greets her at the threshold to what must be a private meeting room for entertaining clients. Stopping before her, he holds out his arm.

  
A playful light enters his eyes. “Yes, I’d know you anywhere.”

  
She can’t stop the reluctant smile that curves her lips. Once again, she takes his arm.

  
His expression _illuminates_ the room. “And, as you can see, we’re still having tea!”

 _  
You’ve made a rhyme, you know,_ she nearly says. Nearly.

  
“I’m terribly late, I know,” she replies as he leads her toward the seat beside his. Where she had sat before... once upon an Underland.

  
He pulls it out for her and, as she sits, his breath caresses her hair, warms her ear as he murmurs, “Naughty.”

  
She glances up at him but his smile is just as innocent as always. With a flutter of hands and a smile of delight, he turns toward her assistant and shakes the man’s hand (which causes several documents to tumble to the floor but Alice doesn’t care). She sits and takes a moment to concentrate on calming her racing heart.

  
Dear knaves with staves, Lord Ascot’s textiles consultant is none other than Tarrant Hightopp!

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Do you have any questions at this juncture, sir?” Cawlsworth inquires politely.

  
Alice watches as the Hatter looks over the documents – thankfully un-crumpled, although how they’d survived that fate while being in Cawlsworth’s possession Alice cannot say! – with narrowed eyes and slightly pursed lips.

  
Alice tries very hard not to stare at his... focused expression.

  
“In summary,” the Hatter muses as he flips one page over and scans the next, “I would be obligated to participate for a minimum of eight months in a venture which will be headed by Miss Kingsleigh. Is that correct?”

  
“Yes. Essentially,” Cawlsworth replies when Alice makes no effort to do so herself. “The particulars of the duties you’ll be performing for the company, however...”

  
“Oh, I’m sure Miss Kingsleigh will be most thorough in her explanation,” he answers easily and with a friendly smile in her direction. “Which I very much look forward to hearing, but I would hate to keep you from your next appointment.”

  
“That’s very considerate of you, sir,” Cawlsworth begins. “But perhaps we had best go through the details now so that Lord Ascot can be briefed on your decision?”

  
“Oh! Well, of course, I’ll be going!” The Hatter looks scandalized at the thought of being left behind.

  
Cawlsworth blinks. “I... see. Very good, sir. However, the contract itself...”

  
“Mr. Hightopp is right,” Alice gently interrupts. “We’ve other appointments today and, if we leave now, we won’t be as unforgivably late as we were with regards to this one.” She turns toward Cawlsworth completely and smiles blandly. “I shall explain the situation to Lord Ascot. Would you see that the carriage is ready?”

  
“Oh... yes. Of course, Miss Kingsleigh. Mr. Hightopp –” Cawlsworth extends his hand to the man once more. “It has been a pleasure, sir. The company looks forward to a long and successful association.”

  
“As do I.”

  
Alice waits for the door to close. She takes a breath to demand if the Hatter really understands what he’s getting himself into: months at sea, cramped quarters, infrequent and unsatisfying baths, stale food and harsh weather and...

  
“Alice,” he whispers, stopping beside her chair and crouching down. “You looked surprised to see me.”

  
“Did I?”

  
“Yes. It was delightful. You played, you know. I _had_ thought you wouldn’t.”

  
She supposes she had; she’d participated in his reenactment of that tea party on Griblig Day. Yes, she’d played. “You didn’t walk across the table this time. A pity. I’d thought you might.”

  
He giggles. “You still enjoy delightfully mad things then, do you Alice?”

  
Her smile is answer enough.

  
“Excellent! I’ve something for you, in that case!”

  
She lays a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising. “What is it?” she asks.

  
“Do you remember your request in the workshop? When I’d been working at my trade for... for... _her?_ ”

 _  
“These are wonderful! You must let me try one on!”_ Yes, Alice remembers. She nods.

  
The Hatter gives her a smile filled with equal parts delight, anticipation, and – oddly enough – triumph. “Well! I’ve just the thing!”

  
Again Alice stops him from standing. “Why don’t you bring it with you when you come over for dinner this evening?” Alice suggests, fully aware of the fact that today is Thursday and not Saturday and a very unworthy mutton stew is most likely on the menu.

  
The Hatter pauses. Blinks. “Dinner?” he confirms, the expression on his face suddenly apprehensive.

  
“Yes. My mother would be thrilled if you could join us.”

  
She cannot decide why it is he seems so relieved. She doesn’t truly think her mother’s disapproval (non-existent though it actually is) would be an impediment to _him._ Nothing ever has been before.

  
He _is_ relieved. And then he is worried. “And you, Alice? Would you also be... thrilled if I could join you?”

  
She stands, ignoring the Hatter’s urgency to aid her with her chair. She slowly closes her satchel and buckles it as she considers her next words. “I also would like to see you there.”

  
She doesn’t have to look up to know he’s pleased. She can sense it in the air.

  
He promises, “Then there I shall be. At eight o’clock?”

  
“Seven thirty. Here is my card.”

  
Tarrant watches as she withdraws a graphite pencil and scribbles hastily on it – it wouldn’t do for Cawlsworth to poke his head back in the room and see this exchange! – and then offers it to him. The Hatter accepts it reverently and holds it delicately in his gloved fingers. “Thank you, Alice,” he breathes. The only other time she’s seen him wear so joyous a grin had been following the battle on Frabjous Day... right before he’d Futterwhackened. Vigorously. She places a hand on his arm as a preventative measure to that.

  
“My mother’s name is Helen Kingsleigh and it’s not often I invite gentlemen over for dinner, so she may be a bit... overwhelming.”

  
“Overprotective?”

  
“Overzealous.”

  
His bushy brows arc upward at that. “Alice, how many gentlemen have you entertained in this manner?”

  
Alice gives him a weak glare. “Why do you ask the questions you already know the answers to?”

  
“To hear those answers given in your voice, Alice.”

  
She sighs and confesses. “None. And after this evening, one. You.”

  
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and murmurs, “Thank you, Alice.”

  
“For the invitation? I believe you already expressed your thanks with regards to that.”

  
“No,” he says, opening his very green eyes and if he could have touched her with a mere look, she knows she would have felt his skin – lips or fingertips – brush her cheek. “Thank you... for your answer.”


	4. The Hat

Yes, her mother had been scandalized when the doorbell had rung and Alice had announced, “That’ll be Mr. Hightopp. He’s agreed to have dinner with us.”

  
“Tonight?” Helen Kingsleigh had hissed as Alice had moved toward the front door.

  
“Of course. Mutton stew, isn’t it?”

  
“Potato. Oh, _Alice!_ ”

  
Alice had hidden a grin. Despite liking it very much when her mother uses her name as a curse word, she knows when _not_ to provoke her. Well, not _overmuch._

  
“Well,” Helen had rallied. “At least I’ll have an excuse to invite him back on Saturday: to _apologize_ for tonight’s lackluster menu!”

  
And Alice hadn’t even had to hide a wince at that, which had disturbed her. Not that she’d winced – for she hadn’t! – but because she hadn’t even felt inclined to. The prospect of seeing the Hatter again – and so soon! – had not been... an _unpleasant_ thing to contemplate.

  
“I’ll get it,” Alice had said to their housekeeper and had opened the door herself.

  
And there, on the stoop, Tarrant had stood with his hat – no, not _his_ hat but one of his newer creations – in his hands and a nervous twitch in his brows. And then he’d seen her.

  
His smile had warmed her from the inside out. Has he always given her _this_ smile? It looks no different from the ones he’d offered her in Underland and yet it _feels_ different. Perhaps because, when he offers it to her, she _accepts_ it now.

  
“Come in, Hatter.”

  
He had.

  
“It’s a lovely hat,” Alice had remarked as she’d offered to take his _chapeau du jour_ and he had handed it over.

  
“But it’s not for you, I’m afraid, Alice,” he’d remarked in an apologetic tone.

  
“That’s fine. I’d prefer to see it worn than to wear it myself.”

  
And she isn’t sure why he’d looked so utterly thrilled at her words, but he _had._

  
“As promised, I’ve brought one for you to try on,” he’d assured her, lifting the hat box he’d carried in from outside.

  
“Perhaps after dinner?” she’d suggested. “If you think it’ll still fit, that is.”

  
He’d giggled at her teasing. “I’ve taken second helpings into account!”

  
“Very good. Now, your gloves?” she’d asked, holding out her hand and the smile had melted right off of his face. Puzzled, she’d watched as he’d stared at her bare hands with a look akin to... _longing_.

  
“I’m sorry, Alice, but I must decline.”

  
“It’s fine.”

  
He’d grinned suddenly and Alice had nodded with a soft, wry chuckle: _yes, a rhyme._

  
Alice had allowed her mother to draw their guest into a conversation, in part to distract him from the mediocre meal but mostly in an effort to assist him in impressing Alice. She knows this game; her mother is very good at it.

  
But with dinner and coffee finished, her mother had bid them a good evening and Alice had shown him into the parlor. Where she now stands as he places the hat box he’d delivered upon the drafting table.

  
“We could wait until we’ve discussed the terms of your contract,” she reminds him, seeing his fingers fumble with the hat box closure.

  
He looks up at her, his eyes unfocused with the intensity of whatever emotion he’s currently entertaining. “This hat has been waiting to be your possession for nearly as long as I have... um, been in London.” He winces and returns his gaze to the box.

  
Alice frowns at his disjointed speech and sudden case of nerves.

  
“Are you all right?” she murmurs.

  
“No, no, not hardly; I’m half right and half left, just as one should be.” He takes a deliberate breath and lifts the lid. “I hope you’ll forgive its insistence, but this hat demands to make your acquaintance. It won’t wait a moment longer.”

  
“Then, by all means, permit it to do so. The pleasure will be mine,” she answers, mindful of his pedantic nature.

  
He smiles, shows off that tiny gap between his two front teeth, and lifts it out.

  
Alice grins. “You’ve made me a top hat. And it’s so like yours!”

  
The Hatter’s smile is infused with a dash of sorrow at that comment. He steps forward and lifts the creation. Alice bows her head as he sets it in place.

  
“There,” he says, “now you look yourself, Alice.”

  
Smiling, Alice turns toward the mirror over the mantle and regards the top hat. The fabric is silvery and lightly tinted, sometimes blue and sometimes green, with an overlay of some sort of ghostly gray lace-like pattern. The ribbon... she would swear it’s from the very same fabric of his top hat’s sash and... those hat pins look very familiar, as well. Perhaps he’d had replicas made of one or two of them?

  
“It’s beautiful. I’m honored, Hatter. Thank you.”

  
Before she can turn back to him, he steps up behind her and regards her reflection in the looking glass. He does not reach out to her, but he is so close she can feel the heat from him against her shoulders and back. She hadn’t put on a bustle when she’d dressed for dinner so there is no reason – no reason _at all!_ – for him to _not_ touch his chest to her back, wrap an arm around her waist, perhaps lean his chin on her shoulder and whisper in her ear...

  
What would he say?

  
Her imagination fails her at that point. Or perhaps she fails it. Perhaps she is not ready to hear that whisper. The embrace, though, she thinks she’d very much like that.

  
It does not happen, however.

  
Suddenly, he takes a step back. “I beg your pardon, Alice.”

  
“Hatter?”

  
She turns and watches as he reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a handkerchief. It’s in that moment that she realizes the intensity of his luminous gaze is not the result of happiness, but of tears. Alice leans toward him, her hand on his arm, and reaches up to his face to gently capture those tears with her fingertips.

  
He leans toward her – _invites her!_ – and she is a moment away from touching his skin... It has been years since the last time...

  
And then Tarrant’s gaze shifts from her face to her hand. Without a word, he flinches away.

  
Alice stares at him for a moment, her hand frozen in the air. Again, his throat works against some internal force and his distress... affects her. She glances down, notices her hand is still on his arm. Gingerly, she lifts it.

  
“I’m sorry,” she says. Although she does not wish to apologize, yes, she’s sorry. Sorry she hadn’t touched him. She remembers touching him. She misses the texture of his skin like she’d missed his laughter, his lisp, his lazy yet so-intense eyes...

  
“’Tis I who shoul’be beggin’ yer pardon, Alice. So sorry.”

  
She nods. Even though she doesn’t understand, she nods. _Enough_ , her heart pleads. _Say no more._

  
He doesn’t. Not on that topic, in any case.

  
He sniffs and hurriedly deals with the three tears that had escaped him. He folds his handkerchief and places it back in his pocket. In that instant, Alice could almost call him selfish for keeping those tears for himself. Perhaps she is jealous of his pocket. Or perhaps she is jealous of the suddenly-not-so insignificant square of linen that had touched his skin, absorbed his tears...

  
“It’s a good fit,” he comments brightly and Alice realizes he’s talking about the hat. “I never did take your measurements for a hat... and then what with you being so many different sizes of Alice... I couldn’t be sure if it would. Fit. Fit you, that is. Fit you at your current size, I mean. Alice size. But it does. Fit. It fits.”

  
Alice can’t help but smile when he rambles. Once upon a time, she had stepped into his arms and softly called his name to bring him back to the present. But... she does not think he would welcome her that close to him now.

  
She slams the door shut on that thought.

  
“I’m lucky I suit it. It’s an indescribably lovely hat. Thank you.”

  
“You already thanked me,” he reminds her gently. His soft smile turns the reprimand into a prideful declaration.

  
“You deserved a second.” Which she would have been happy to give him except that it would have involved _touching_ her skin to his and... and...

 _  
He doesn’t want that._

Alice shakes her head, remembers the other unfinished business they have and gratefully turns her every thought on it. “Would you care to discuss the particulars of the consulting position you’ve accepted?”

  
“Alice, I...”

  
And it is impossible for her to _not_ look at him when his voice _calls_ to her in such a way. One hand is resting on the hat box and yet the other is extended to her. She watches as his hand fists and he pivots smartly, turning back to the container.

  
“Actually, I ought to be going. It’s late.”

  
She consults the clock and realizes it’s very nearly ten in the evening.

  
“Of course. The contract will wait.”

  
“Until Saturday?” he asks, an odd warble in his voice.

  
She nods. “Yes.” He _had_ accepted her mother’s invitation to dinner this Saturday, after all. “Saturday. We’ll discuss it then, if you like.”

  
He nods.

  
Alice searches for a way to assist him with leaving, even though she doesn’t want him to. But to stay here, in this room and _not_ try to touch him again... To stay here and try _not_ to remember how he’d shied away from her hand...

  
Unbearable.

  
“I treasure the hat.”

  
He smiles, but it’s a sad one. “You always have, I believe. It’s only right for you to have it.”

  
“A fateful hat?” she teases, her amusement at the idea that this hat has always been meant for her alleviates a layer of frustrated misery from her heart.

  
“Perhaps,” he admits. “Probably. Likely.”

  
Before he can recite a thesaurus’ worth of similar words, she reminds him, “I’ll see you out.”

  
“Yes, yes. Of course.”

  
His gloved hands caress the hat box. “Perhaps you’ll keep this as well? For safekeeping?”

  
She lifts her fingers to the brim of her top hat. “Yes. I’ll take good care of it.”

  
“I trust ye, Alice,” he assures her, his brogue like a purr in the room.

  
She shivers.

  
The house is dark and silent as she leads him down the hall, toward the front door. She collects his cane and top hat and offers them to him.

  
“Thank you again for accepting the invitation. And for the hat,” she murmurs, mindful of the quiet house and her mother upstairs.

  
“The pleasure was mine,” he replies.

  
She reaches for the doorknob.

  
“ _Alice!_ ” he whispers suddenly, taking a step toward her.

  
She looks up and into his eyes which seem to be _burning_ from the inside. He leans toward her until his lips are a mere breath’s distance away and his body is a moment away from crashing into hers and the utter intensity of him steals her breath, her thoughts, _her mind._

  
“Alice... I wan’teh. Ne’er doub’tha’, Alice, I beg o’ ye. Bu’ we _mussn’_.” He closes his eyes and leans away. “We mustn’t,” he lisps, his jaw and fists clenched tight. “That does not remove the desire,” he informs her, opening his eyes. “But knowing that you would have...” His gaze drops to her lips. “Knowing that you _wished_ to... helps _delay_ it.”

  
“Hatter?” she asks with a frown.

  
He blinks, glances away, clears his throat nervously. “I... beg your pardon, Alice. I spoke out of turn.”

  
Confused, Alice ignores her pounding heart as best she can and asks, “Hatter, what—?”

  
“Until Saturday, dear Alice,” he gently insists and she can hear the plea in it. He cannot speak of this, think of this, whatever _this_ is. It takes a monumental effort on her part to oblige him, to _not_ demand an explanation. That will have to wait.

  
She opens the door. “A safe journey home,” she bids him. And then her lips twitch. “Fairfarren, Hatter.”

  
“Not so far,” he reminds her. “Just until Saturday.”

  
“Until Saturday.”

  
He steps outside, stops, turns, and brushes his gloved knuckles and thumb over her cheek. Once again, his gaze moves over her face, memorizing her, mesmerizing her.

  
“One day,” he assures her.

  
And then he jogs down the steps and gets into the waiting carriage.

  
Alice watches the vehicle pull away and wonders at his parting words.

  
How very odd that he – a man of such an exacting nature when it comes to words – still manages to miscount the days. _One day,_ indeed! It’s _two_ days until Saturday!

  
She withdraws into the house and locks the door. It’s not until much later, as she’s putting the hat he’d given her to bed in its hat box and she’s dressed for bed herself that she realizes what he’d _meant._

  
One day.

  
Not as in “one day from now”...

  
No, he’d meant, “one day” as in “someday” as in “not now but soon”...

  
Alice plops down gracelessly on the edge of her bed. Dear umbrella birds of Underland, she had very nearly _missed_ that!

  
And if she’d nearly missed _that_ , then what else has she missed?

  
It’s a very long time before she manages to fall asleep, and even then it’s not because she’s satisfied with the thorough examination she’d given her memories. It’s because she cannot bear to coexist with the sense of failure for one moment longer.

 

*~*~*~*

 

  
“What’s this?”

  
Alice glances down into the small wooden box then looks up at the Hatter’s befuddled expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a revolver before!”

  
“All right.” He declares, “I won’t tell you I’ve never seen a revolver before.”

  
She gapes at him.

  
He giggles. And then he straightens, clears his throat, and peers down into the velvet lined case once more.

  
“Not that I’m not deeply appreciative of the gift, Alice, for any indication that you think of me at all in the interim between our meetings is precious to me, but why a... revolver?”

  
She smirks even as her heart swells at his earnest confession. “At last we come to the particulars of your contract.”

  
Alice enjoys the worried start he gives. “My contract demands the use of a revolver?”

 _ **  
That**_ _should teach you not to sign anything before you’ve read it thoroughly, Hatter,_ she reprimands him in silence. Her look must communicate it well because he ducks his head, flushing slightly.

  
Alice aims to put him out of his misery: “It might. Although the likelihood of being troubled by pirates is minimal along the route, it’s entirely possible we’ll encounter difficulties in port or once we reach our destination. It’s required that everyone who sails be able to defend themselves.”

  
The Hatter looks up, a stubborn gleam in his eyes and his dark lips parting in protest.

  
Alice talks over his intended rebuttal, “And a revolver lends itself to portability far more easily than a claymore.”

  
With this, he cannot argue. But he tries. “A claymore would be quieter.”

  
“A claymore won’t stand a chance against another revolver or a pistol. Or in a narrow corridor or alley.”

  
He sighs. “I must learn to use this blasted thing?”

  
Alice snorts at the pun. “I’m afraid so. If you like, _I_ could show you how although I’m sure Lord Ascot could recommend someone – a gentleman – far more knowledgeable than—”

  
“I choose you, Alice. Of course.”

  
Well, she’d given him the option of doing so, after all. “All right.”

  
At the first available opportunity – at the office on Monday – Alice asks Lord Ascot if she and the Hatter might use a secluded corner of his estate for their lessons in firearms. Her employer agrees readily and, once again, the Hatter clears his schedule.

  
“You’ll lose all your clients if you keep this up. I’m sure they’re hoping you’ll complete their orders before you sail,” she observes, leading him toward the small clearing where Lord Ascot had taught _her_ how to shoot.

  
Tarrant glances toward her and she notices that his gaze travels over her hat, the hat he’d given her last week. “I _chose_ you, Alice,” he answers simply, as if that non sequitur is answer enough.

  
At this time on Thursday last week, it wouldn’t have been.

  
Now, however, it is. Tarrant Hightopp has _chosen_ her. And not merely as a firearms instructor. He’d signed a contract that would permit him to be involved with her next assignment, to travel and work with her on a daily basis for _months_. He’d given her his personal calling card. He’d forsaken the experience of his first gala to be with her in that garden. But... does any or all of this mean he intends to court her? she wonders. Or perhaps she’s misreading the situation and he intends something quite different, for example...?

  
Actually, she cannot think of another realistic alternative interpretation. Perhaps there’s a mysterious or mystically backward Underlandian motive at work here?

  
“Hatter...”

  
“Yes, Alice?”

  
“Perhaps you could explain something to me.”

  
“I shall do my best to oblige.”

  
She pauses, uncaring that they’re still on the open lawn, visible from any number of windows. “If you have chosen me... why wouldn’t you let me _Choose_ you? Whenever I tried to find you?”

  
His expression twitches and she expects him to look away. He doesn’t. “I wasn’t ready for you to find me.”

  
“But the night of the gala, when I...?”

  
The Hatter giggles. “If I’d permitted you to Arrive, at that moment, you might have suddenly found yourself in the champagne bowl.”

  
Alice has to admit that would have been... awkward. Still... “You can’t explain away every instance as a case of poor timing!”

  
“Nor will I attempt to.” His eyes dull with sadness. His mouth sets with determination. “I had things to do before I could permit _myself_ to see you again, Alice.”

  
Once more, his gaze lifts from hers to her hat and a small smile curves his dark lips. “I had hoped, of course, but... I’m so very glad that you’ve...” He meets her gaze again and says, quite bluntly, “I’ve waited... a long time to give you your hat, Alice.”

  
She studies him, studies his tone, his words. Since her evening of careful introspection, she has realized that the Hatter never says what he does not mean and yet he often means much more than he seems to say. Just like when he’d promised her, _“One day...”_

  
Just like now.

  
There is something special about this hat, something special to _him._ There is some significance in her having accepted it. Something...

  
She can’t put the itch of a thought into words, so she errs purposefully, hoping that he’ll correct her:

  
“Hatter... are you... Is it your intention to... court me?”

  
He blinks in a startled and nervous way. She’d surprised him with the truth.

  
She’d also surprised herself.

  
But he says only, “You accepted the hat.”

  
“Yes, and I can see that’s very important to you, but I don’t understand _why._ ”

  
“Ah, well...” The Hatter fidgets slightly with his cuffs before taking a deep breath and doing her the courtesy of meeting her gaze again. “In accepting my hat... _your_ hat, I’ve brought you under the mantle of the Hightopp family.”

  
Despite the fact that his declaration _begs_ for confirmation, there is one point she had most definitely _not_ missed. “ _Your_ hat?” she prompts.

  
He sighs and looks up at the top hat she wears proudly. “Aye. Once. Bu’twas yers th’moment ye returned it teh mae. Once it had touched yer hands, I knew... ‘twas nae mine any launger.”

  
He reaches out with one shaky hand and gently touches the brim, the ribbon, the hat pins. Alice is struck speechless by his confession.

  
“Why...?” But no, he’d already answered that. “How could you part with it?” But again, he’d already told her the answer. “Hatter...”

  
Alice studies his face, feeling her own tighten with sorrow. She’ll never see him in his wonderfully morose and battered top hat again. He’d remade it and given it to her. To _her._

  
“I’ve le’go o’ th’ past, Alice,” he confides in a low tone. “’Twoul’nae b’ righ’ fer mae teh keep it. Bu’... as I said... it chose _ye_. I merely obliged it.”

  
“And I accepted,” she summarizes.

  
He lowers his hand. Nods.

  
Alice clarifies, “So... we are family now?”

  
Again he fidgets. He clears his throat and confirms, “I’ve made the offer. You’ve only to formally accept... if you wish to.”

  
“You mean... a courtship?” she presses, relieved that this conversation has come back around to the matter that most concerns her at the moment.

  
“A... courtship. Or a kinship. It would be entirely your decision, Alice. I simply... I simply don’t want to see you leave... again.”

 _  
“I don’t want to see you leave_ _ **me**_ _”_ he doesn’t say, but she hears it in the tiny beat of uncertain silence.

  
She burns to reassure him but she has so many other questions and there’s so much that still doesn’t make sense and she’s only been reacquainted with him for two weeks and...!

  
He starts to turn away. “Shall we...”

  
Alice captures his face in her gloved hands and stops his evasion, his redirection, his suggestion that shooting blasted things is somehow more endurable than the sudden, awkward silence.

  
“Hatter...” she says and then corrects herself. “ _Tarrant_...”

  
The man who is offering himself to her – in whatever capacity she prefers – shivers. His eyes close; his lips part. His face is warm even through the fabric that covers her palms. “Yes, Alice?”

  
He wants this, she sees. Touch. _Her_ touch. He wants it, and yet he denies them. She does not know why but she knows she cannot ask him this now. No, _now_ is for other things. There will be time _later_ for _that._

  
She caresses his cheekbones until his eyes open. “Thank you,” she says, “for the offer.”

  
She wants to tell him she _will_ accept, but she’s wary. The future is so vast and shapeless now and it scares her.

  
He covers one of her hands with his own. She doesn’t doubt that, had he not been carrying the gun case under his opposite arm, she would have found both her hands pressed against his face.

  
Tarrant smiles. There’s hope and sadness in it. He’s disappointed, she thinks. Disappointed that she hasn’t given him her answer. Can’t. Not yet.

  
He replies, “You are most _welcome_ , Alice.”

  
And this time she looks past the common pleasantry and sees the Invitation therein.

 


	5. The Wonder

Under normal circumstances, Alice would have been quite happy to be entrusted with the care of one of Tarrant Hightopp’s much sought-after hats. Under normal circumstances, she would have been undeniably happy to be standing next to him, her hand rubbing his back. Under normal circumstances, she would have been absolutely happy to be spending day after day in his company.

  
These, however, are _not_ normal circumstances.

  
For the fourth day in a row, Tarrant is violently ill over the side of the ship.

  
“This is,” he wheezes, “not a very—” Groan. “—auspicious start to—” Hiccup. “—our voyage, Alice.”

  
“No, no it isn’t,” she finds herself agreeing. She looks out over the calm sea and winces. Oh, blasted giant Jubjub birds, however is Tarrant going to manage when they encounter their first storm or a three-day-long patch of rough sea?

  
“This will pass,” she assures him.

  
“Yes—” he gasps, gulping sea air. “Yes, Time—despite—our previous—animosity—is most—regular _Here._ ”

  
It is. Sometimes time passes. And sometimes, they pass it. On several such occasions, it’s with the aid of the chessboard in the captain’s office.

  
“Chessur would grin madly to see us playing a game he’d undoubtedly believe was named for himself,” Alice declares one sunny afternoon to a wan-looking Hatter. He hasn’t been ill yet today, but that could change; lunch has yet to be announced and Alice has to admit, the fare is not... inspiring.

  
The Hatter summons a smile despite the queasiness that seems to loiter most inconsiderately in his presence. “No doubt he would.”

  
“Do you miss it? Everyone? I mean, home? Do you miss it?”

  
He stares at her for a moment. Alice studies him openly as he does so. She’s grown to know him quite a bit better over the recent weeks and so she _easily_ sees the misdirecting white lie forming on his tired face. Alice interrupts him before he can find the will to speak it.

  
“I do, too.”

  
“Do you?” he asks, looking startled.

  
“Of course. Every day.”

  
“But you’ve done so well here. I’d thought...”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Well, aren’t you enjoying the rewards of your success?”

  
She smiles. “At the moment? Yes, I am. Checkmate.”

  
There are bouts of backgammon and bridge. Clashes across chess and checkerboards. Sunset strolls along the starboard railing. Sometimes they see and speak to one of the other consultants Lord Ascot had enlisted for the voyage. Sometimes they’re alone. Sometimes they are accompanied by silence. Sometimes Alice retrieves their revolvers and directs an empty barrel tied to a length of rope be thrown overboard and they waste bullets.

  
“Alice,” Tarrant asks, three weeks into their voyage, “have you ever used a revolver? In your own defense?”

  
Her hands, which had been correcting the positioning of his arms... _again_ , pause.

  
“Yes,” she answers.

  
He waits for her to continue. She doesn’t. It is not a moment she likes to think of. “Alice?”

  
She can feel his worried stare. “I missed my target,” she replies. She considers picking up her own revolver and shooting at the splintered barrel bobbing on the waves. She considers it but doesn’t do it. Instead, she unloads the gun and disassembles it.

  
“Were you... injured?” he lisps.

  
Alice shakes her head and places the weapon back into its box. “We’ll be docking in Lagos soon. Perhaps the day after tomorrow.” One corner of her mouth lifts. “There’s business I have to take care of so we’ll be in dock for nearly a week. You could rent a room, sleep in a real bed...” She doesn’t list all the necessities he’s been denied since boarding the ship. He knows.

  
“As delightful as that sounds, I wouldn’t know the first direction in which go in search of comfortable accommodation.”

  
“The captain will take us,” she assures him. Tarrant sets his own weapon aside and reaches for the waterlogged line to which the abused barrel had been tethered. Alice doesn’t insist that he should continue without her. He never has before. It’s almost as if he has no preference whatsoever in whatever it is they do, so long as they perform that activity in each other’s company.

  
That night at dinner, the captain announces that they will reach Lagos by lunchtime the following day. Alice thinks fondly of fresh food and a soft bed that doesn’t move and a room that doesn’t smell of sweat and sea water and boredom...

  
“Alice?”

  
In the midst of opening her cabin door, she pauses. She looks up at Tarrant, who had escorted her to her door yet again, as he has whenever his nausea has permitted it of him.

  
He places a hand on the door frame, barring her entrance. She knows she could duck under it but she refrains. Whatever he wants to say must be important, otherwise he would not go to such extremes. And whatever it is that’s on his mind must be upsetting; he’s anticipating her refusal to answer, her inclination to run.

  
She thinks she knows what he’s going to ask.

  
“What happened? When you fired the revolver in your defense?”

  
Alice closes her eyes, turns her face away. “Nothing happened. I missed the cursed piece of sea scum I’d been trying to hit. And the... the... _girl_ he’d... She ran –” _Stumbled, staggered, scrambled!_ “– off. Probably to be a victim to another one of those...” She opens her eyes and glances up at his face. His expression tells her enough. She’s said too much.

  
“An’ th’... _man?_ ” His eyes are intense, yellow, his jaw locked. She notes his hesitation over the classification of the... creature Alice had aimed her revolver at so many months ago.

  
“Decided not to argue with a woman with a firearm.”

  
Tarrant’s eyes close. A breath of relief tinged with failure escapes him. She knows that breath. He’d been an unknighted champion once upon a time to the banished White Queen. Alice had been a champion herself. Yes, they both know those battles – the ones that are lost even as they’re won.

  
“And yet, I still can’t stop myself from looking closely into every dark alley I pass by,” she continues. And turning toward him fully, reminds him, “You asked me how I enjoy my success...”

  
“Alice...” He shakes his head.

  
“It’s such a grand adventure. All of it,” she admits. “But, the bottom line... at the end of the day... I’m just a ghost. Nothing I do... _matters_. It’s nothing anyone else couldn’t do in my stead. I’m replaceable here, in ways I never was... in Underland.” The last is said on a whisper.

  
Tarrant shifts. His gloved hands frame her face. “Wha’ ye did... in tha’ alley... though it frightens me to contemplate it... _mattered_ ,” he insists. And then he corrects himself: “Matters.”

  
He conducts a study of her eyes and whatever he sees in them. “I think... there are few who would have done the same in your stead. Only you, Alice, your muchness, your goodness... _You_.”

  
And then she finds herself in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder. His arms are warm and strong and solid, just as she’d sensed they would be the night of the gala, and the only thing that could make her happier would be to have her forehead pressed against his jaw, her lips brushing his neck...

  
“Ye matter, Champion. Ye matter. No matter where ye are.”

  
Yet, at the moment, Alice doesn’t really care about any of those other places. Places she’s been, seen... At the moment, it’s _this_ place that demands her utmost attention. Here in the dingy corridor of a trading vessel in Tarrant Hightopp’s arms.

  
To her extreme mortification, she feels tears burn her eyes. She lifts her hands from his arms and wraps them around his torso, pressing her palms against his back.

  
“Alice,” he whispers, and she wishes she could feel it stir her hair, but he keeps his face turned away. “Have you any idea what I would give to heal you of that memory?”

  
Her smile is sad and knowing. She can imagine but she is not tempted to accept; this man has given far too much already. And what he gives her now is certainly not insignificant... or unappreciated. She sighs into his jacket sleeve, relaxes against him.

  
“You’ve made a good start of it,” she murmurs and feels his arms tighten.

  
She wonders how long they can stand here like this, uninterrupted. Wonders if perhaps now is the time to ask him _why_ he will not permit her to touch him, will not permit himself to touch her...

  
On the deck above, voices and footsteps echo down the stairwell to them and Tarrant reluctantly pulls back.

  
Alice studies his expression – so concerned! – and chastises herself. “I’ve gone and ruined this voyage for you. I’m sorry. I should have...”

  
“No. You shouldn’t have withheld the truth from me.” He regards her features until a soft smile pulls at his lips. “Wondrous things are not always pleasant. In fact, often times, they are _not_ ,” he observes. “We sail on a very aptly named vessel, do we not?”

 _  
The Wonder..._ Yes, she supposes it is a fitting name. Still...

  
“When I realized you would be sailing with me... _us..._ ”

  
He gently presses a gloved finger to her lips, correcting her, objecting to her self-censorship. For a long moment, they stand thusly in the dark corridor of the ship, a single scrap of cotton between their skin, listening to the voices and footsteps that do _not_ descend the steps from the deck above, merely threaten to. Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand, but not his gaze.

  
She finishes her thought: “I wanted to show you the magic _this_ world has to offer...”

  
“Alice,” he whispers, his gaze roving over the contours of her face. “You already have.” And then his mouth curves into the smile he’d given her just as she’d disappeared from the battlefield in Underland; the smile she’s carried with her wherever she’d gone since that moment. The smile she has reminded herself again and again to _earn._

  
He tells her, “And I could not be more impressed.”

  
The ship rocks and she leans toward him. His hand reaches out, steadies her. “That sounds like a challenge,” she muses through her own smile.

  
“Do you still believe in six impossible things before breakfast?” he inquires, a light dancing in his imperfectly beautiful eyes.

  
“Yes, I do,” she admits. She deliberately allows her gaze to drop, to take in the sight of him. And even though his clothes are as rumpled and wrinkled and too-infrequently washed as her own, she cannot recall ever seeing a more appealing sight.

  
When she meets his gaze – oddly anxious, as if he fears she will not like what she sees – the smile she gives him is _not_ innocent.

  
She whispers, “And the list grows longer every day.”

  
This time, when the ship rocks, he leans toward _her._ She reaches out, steadies him, subtly pulls him closer. Again, his focus upon her is nearly a kiss. _Nearly..._

  
“I must ask for your assistance, Alice,” he rasps. “We’ve many weeks left to endure... enjoy... before we arrive. And we mustn’t...”

  
She licks her bottom lip. It’s a nervous gesture, nothing more. Yet it captivates him and a breathy groan escapes him. “Please...” he begs, his gaze on her mouth. “Behave, Alice.”

  
Although it pains her to do so, she does.

  
“Good night, Tarrant.”

  
“Good night, Alice” she hears a moment after she closes the door to her room. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lets her forehead fall forward until it connects with the wooden portal. Someday, their good-byes are not going to be so dissatisfying. Someday, they will not be necessary at all...

  
A life without the need for good-byes. Despite the dissatisfyingly _noisy_ energy zipping through her mind and humming through her veins, she recognizes an impossible thing when she encounters it. And greedily catalogs it for her List.

  
The following afternoon, she adds yet another one to it.

  
As they follow the captain’s lead through the throng on the busy street, vendors shouting in strange languages and strange scents overwhelming them, Tarrant turns to her, places his ever-gloved hand over her own, which is tucked into his elbow and declares, “You know, I imagine Paris would be just like this.”

  
For a moment, she doesn’t understand. Hasn’t he already been to Paris? Doesn’t he already have a very successful shop there? Why would he feel the need to imagine a place he’s already been?

  
But then, as he glances at her out of the corner of his eye and she feels his regard envelop her, she sees precisely what he means: Yes, Paris might be exactly like this: thrilling and new and foreign and wondrously frightening and mad and brilliant and beautiful and... _more – so much_ _ **more!**_ – with him by her side and her by his.

  
Yes, Paris could be exactly like this.

  
“One day,” she agrees and is rewarded with his beaming smile.

 

  
*~*~*~*

 

The time spent in Lagos is too short. She sighs sadly as they pull away. Cargo had been exchanged and fresh water and provisions stowed – a successful stop, all told – still... she’s always sad when sailing away from this particular port. It had been her first stop on her first voyage – her first Magical Place in _this_ world – and as such it will always hold a special place in her memory. The sigh is inevitable. And the first of many.

  
Tarrant notices – but of course he does! – and invites her to see what he’d bought in the marketplace. He brings his purchases to the captain’s office and lays them out on the table that has become _theirs._ And as their most recent port of call slips further and further beneath the horizon, Alice does not wish herself back in Lagos, for the city holds no appeal beside her present company.

  
She watches his hands flutter and his eyebrows arch. His energy, renewed from the brief stay on land, charms hers. She watches his hands – still gloved – and it bothers her that she can’t recall what they had looked like when she’d last seen them. His thumb had been bandaged, hadn’t it? And his knuckles stained orange, his fingernails a frightful color and thick yet brittle. Although some fingertips had been capped with thimbles, hadn’t they? It bothers her that she can’t properly _remember_ and suddenly she’s frightened that she really is _forgetting_ him (just as he’d predicted she would) even though he’s right here in _front of her_ _ **and—!**_

  
Tarrant’s lecture on the dye process that had been used in one particularly lovely bolt of fabric is cut short when Alice’s hands grasp both of his. She stares at their gloved hands – white on white – and the sudden silence in the office, an office which is empty except for the two of them and Tarrant’s Lagos purchases, bears witness to the moment.

  
“I...” Alice whispers and the sound of her own voice seems much louder than normal. “I’ll beg your pardon,” she murmurs. “But in a moment.”

  
Alice collects his right hand in both of hers. Lifts it. Just a step and a half away, he is completely still. She wonders if he’s even _breathing_...

  
She glances up and his eyes... She swallows back the sudden clamoring inside her that claws and scrapes and thrashes up from her stomach, her chest. She’s seen his eyes like _this_ before: in the foyer of her mother’s house after he’d given her that hat – _his_ hat! – when he’d seemed so very _willing_ to kiss her and yet he hadn’t.

  
“A moment, please,” she rasps as her fingers reach beneath his cuff and curl under the edge of his glove.

  
He does nothing, says nothing, as she peels it from his hand. Although she had reached for him, is undressing his hand in order to see what she cannot clearly recall, she cannot look away from his expression. Want is there, she believes. She is not an expert nor does she have much practical experience, but that look is something she knows by instinct alone.

  
The glove slides off, inside out. It catches on his fingertips and with a bit more insistent pressure his hand is freed completely.

  
He shivers.

  
Alice looks down.

  
There are still mercury stains in his pale skin, yes. She can see them and she will probably still be seeing them twenty years from now. His nails are not as startlingly unhealthy as she vaguely recalls. There are no bandages or thimbles in sight, no cuts or scrapes. She passes her gloved thumbs over the back of his hand, testing the resiliency of his skin, the tautness of the tendons, the firmness of the muscles.

  
His other hand turns, grasps the edge of the table. He shivers again.

  
“I just realized,” she attempts to explain, turning his hand over in hers to examine the fine lines that cross his palm, “that I had nearly forgotten...”

  
Both she and the silence wait, breath held, for his response to this.

  
Unsteadily, he says, “I... d’nae wan’...” He pauses, draws a deliberate breath. “I d’nae wan’ ye teh f’rget mae.”

  
Those first three words tumble over in her mind: _I don’t want..._ So very similar to _I don’t know_ and _I don’t think..._ How can she not remark on them?

  
“Are you one of the Cynics now?” she teases gently, gazing up into his luminous eyes. “Will you chose to live in a bathing tub on the streets like Diogenes?” She’s not sure if Tarrant understands the reference to one of Ancient Greece’s more eccentric philosophers. She knows his story only because his doctrines are often quoted in the books for Young Ladies her mother had bade her read when she’d been younger. Such selflessness had been admirable (if unappealing and nearly impossible to maintain for any significant length of time) and Alice had been driven to look up more on the man amongst her father’s collection of books. (Even then, impossible things had fascinated her. And, certainly those doctrines had qualified as such!) And what she had found – a man who renounces all material possessions, who desires not wealth or power or fame or glory or even a good name, who lives on the streets and gladly endures the scorn of his fellow citizens, who is called foolish and mad and a plethora of other derogatory terms – had shed new light on the things she had been reading under her mother’s direction.

  
“Alice,” he whispers. “Perhaps we are not in a bathing tub on a _street_ , per se, but you must admit, a boat on the ocean current is near enough.”

  
That is true... and ironic that she has given up the material comforts of her life in London – is called mad and her mother left to endure endless whispering disapproval – so that those very Londoners may have More.

  
But she is not the only one to do this. Has Tarrant not _also_ given up his material comforts in order to join this venture? Although _not_ for the sake of spoilt and demanding Londoners but to be with _her?_ Is there anyone in the world _less_ selfish than this man? “You’re right,” she admits, lowering her gaze. “You do _not_ want.”

  
He tenses and a creak resounds from where his other hand clutches the table’s edge. “But I do... Alice.”

  
Is it one sentence or two? Had her name been intended as a direct address or a clarification – a quantification – of his desires? She cradles his hand in hers, trails her cloth-covered fingertips over the lines in his stained skin.

  
Does she want him to want her? Does she want _him?_ She wants to touch him, yes, but what does that _mean?_ Is she thinking of him as a kinsman... or a courting beau?

  
She thinks of the top hat sitting safely in her cabin. The offer – Tarrant’s offer – remains. He is still waiting for her reply.

  
Alice opens her mouth, but nothing emerges. No replies whatsoever come to her. Still, that’s no reason not to repay him in _some_ way for the gift. She should _acknowledge_ the specialness of the trust he had shown her when he’d given her his hat.

  
“I should very much like to make a hat for you,” she tells him, glancing up again. “To rest in the place of the one you gave me.”

  
Because she is watching him so very closely, she sees the tension in him break, shatter, and fall away. “... oh. I see. Yes,” he continues and Alice is witness to a painfully bright, painfully cheerful smile. “Yes, I quite understand. And I appreciate it very much. Will appreciate it. Your offer, I mean. I... Yes, I shall make good use of any hat you would make for me.”

  
He renews his smile – curved with falseness and... perhaps, _pain?_ – and gently pulls his hand from her grasp.

  
She retakes it and this time it will require far more effort for him to break her grip. “What is it? What have I said?”

  
He pauses. The smile disappears and his gaze searches hers. She thinks she sees the smallest flicker of hope in the twitching of his no-longer-so-meticulously groomed brows. “You replied. To my offer,” he tells her with careful neutrality.

  
“No,” she corrects him. “I merely thought to assure you that I hadn’t forgotten or dismissed it and I...” She opens her grasp so that his hand is once more resting gently in both of hers. He could remove it at any time. Now, even.

  
And yet it remains.

  
She admits, “I wouldn’t know _how_ to answer your offer properly. I am not versed in the customs or ways and I...” She sighs through gritted teeth. “I have no idea of what I’m doing!” Taking a deep breath, she looks up and declares, “When I offered you a hat in exchange was that... I was giving you an answer, wasn’t I? That I preferred kinship over...”

  
He gives her a visibly reluctant nod. “Aye.”

  
“And... in the case of the other... what would be given?” her curiosity prompts her to query.

  
Leaving his right hand in the loose cradle of her hands, Tarrant lifts his left. His throat works and Alice imagines he’s juggling words again. He pauses, his left hand just inches from her hair, which spills over her shoulders in her usual below-deck style.

  
He swallows once more, clenches his jaw for a moment, and then wrangles his words. “Something,” he muses roughly, “that is meant to be kept safe and precious, not used or used up or ever thrown away.”

  
His fingers, still encased in his glove, twitch toward her, give Alice her answer to the riddle, and then he pulls his hand back.

  
Alice is too preoccupied with the racing of her own heart for her to notice when he softly removes his right hand from her grasp. By the time she realizes that fact, he has finished turning his abandoned glove right-side out and is slipping it on.

  
He gives her a shy smile. “I _do_ want, Alice,” he reminds her. “I want to see you _happy_.”

  
It’s on the tip of her tongue to request that he leave those damned gloves off in that case, but she doesn’t. What sort of touch would she be sharing with him if he acquiesced to her request? Perhaps _this_ is why he keeps a layer of cloth between them at all times. Perhaps he wants her to be _sure_ what manner of touch it would be before he consents to it.

  
And, Alice must admit, he deserves that much; she owes him an answer. She also, she realizes much later, owes him an apology; she’d promised to beg his pardon for her forward behavior, but it had slipped her mind completely and Tarrant had, apparently, not felt it necessary to remind her.

  
The gloves remain firmly in place, on both his hands and hers throughout the remainder of the voyage. They stop in port after port; Alice barters away cargo and arranges for more to be taken on; Tarrant investigates the markets, dines with her whenever she is free, and escorts her wherever she needs to go.

  
There is one port Alice does _not_ enjoy and Tarrant, sensing this, stays close. Yes, she still carries the gun, but she’s comforted by his presence nonetheless. She still finds herself glancing – and sometimes _glaring_ – into shadowy alleys as she passes them, but Tarrant bumps her shoulder gently with his (it’s an easy gesture to accomplish what with the sorry state of the roads here) and she releases the breath she’d been holding.

  
And then her work is finished and the captain turns the ship toward the next stop, heading northeast once more, toward their eventual and final destination, the destination Alice is _most_ anticipating, the destination that has never been possible for them to even consider visiting before now:

  
The port of Nagasaki, Japan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Asian Maritime Trade Routes :: I did just a tiny bit of research on Asian maritime sea routes. Some of the ports that I managed to (I think) identify as ones on British trade routes were: Agra, Lagos, Bombay, Calcutta, Ragoon, and Guangzhou (a.k.a. Hong Kong). I’m sure there must have been more but I wasn’t very lucky with my Googling.
> 
> 2\. Lagos, Nigeria :: Lagos was a major center for the African slave trade. I so badly wanted to address this issue, do it as much justice as I could and not sweep it under the proverbial rug... and yet that’s precisely what I did. I wish I could have found a way to make it work with the rest of the story, however, the way I see Alice and Tarrant, they would have reacted quite strongly to that (unlike many other people of that time and in the trading business) and it would have destroyed the storyline. Personally, I think Disney must be ignoring this as well: at the end of the film, Alice sets out for (presumably) Hong Kong. This would not be a direct route. The ship would have to stop and take on fresh water and perishables and other supplies at least so Alice would have been a witness to the slave trade. A whole novel could be written about Alice encountering the slave trade and trying to do something about it, perhaps with Tarrant’s help. However, that story is not this story.
> 
> 3\. Diogenes :: Digenes of Sinope was a contemporary of Plato only in that they lived at roughly the same time and got into a slew of heated, public arguments with each other. (I greatly enjoy imagining that, actually. I’ve read far too many works by Plato to take him seriously anymore.) Diogenes despised people who were all talk and no action when it came to Virtue and the pursuit of a virtuous life. He renounced all worldly goods, claiming that material things could never lead to true happiness. His views formed the basis for Cynicism (which is a recognized school of thought in Ancient Greek Philosophy). A truly happy person rejects money, fame, power, and reputation. I am not sure if reading material for young Victorian ladies truly quoted his principles, but it sounds like something that might be preached to women of the time, doesn’t it? At least, in so far as women should never demand any sort of recognition or power or independence for themselves. This was not Diogenes’ message, but I think it’s quite easy to take that meaning from it when it’s presented out-of-context. Diogenes endorsed The Simple Life in which people lose all the Baggage that they stress themselves out over. For Diogenes, The Simple Life was living on the streets (which he did, purportedly in a tub) endeavoring to lead by example: people don’t need the material and immaterial products of society to live in society and enjoy life to its fullest.
> 
> 4\. British Exports :: The main British exports of the time were: cotton, iron, steel, and coal. (Just FYI.) Source: [Victorian Britain: Industrial Might](http://www.channel4.com/history/microsites/H/history/guide19/part11.html)
> 
> 5\. England-Japan Voyage Duration :: Thanks to my husband’s mad research skills, he found out that a voyage from Japan to England (or at least on one occasion) took around 3 months outbound from Japan and about 2 months outbound from England. I’d give the source, but it’s in Japanese. Sorry.


	6. The Island

“Dis iz _mi-ko-shi_ ,” Mr. Mutsu explains nodding toward the commotion coming down the narrow street.

  
“The parade?” Alice inquires. She doesn’t hesitate to ask questions here – here where they treat both her _and_ Tarrant as if they are honored guests of equal importance and not a woman _and_ a man, the latter of which is somehow qualitatively _better_ than the former – and asking questions also helps keep her mind off of the fact that Tarrant’s arm is brushing hers and his thigh is pressed warmly along hers and... She swallows. They’ve spent three months aboard a small clipper together without a single skin-on-skin touch in the entire duration of the voyage. She thinks of nothing else, these days, and fears for the state of the company’s trade agreements. So she asks questions. Questions are preferable to Thoughts.

  
Their appointed guide, a man not much older than Alice but of obvious aristocratic origins, gives her a puzzled frown.

  
“The parade, do you mean?” she repeats. He tilts his head slightly to the side in a gesture Alice has come to recognize as one that expresses uncertainty and she tries again, “All of these people?”

  
She gestures toward the lantern-lit streets. The neighborhood glows golden with rich reddish hues. By day, the town of Nagasaki is a festival of browns: the dirt-packed lanes framed by unpainted, wooden one-story structures. Alice had marveled unrepentantly upon her arrival. She’d been delighted with the shops and the fact that there had been _no doors_ separating goods from customers; during the day, the heavy wooden shutters are removed from the street-facing side of the low buildings. Men in dark robe-like wear recline, their swords (which only vaguely resemble ones she’d glimpsed in Hong Kong) placed aside, as they drink unsweetened, uncreamed tea from cups with no handles or saucers (and even the native people in _Hong Kong_ had made use of saucers!) and they call out to their friends and associates who pass by along the street. It’s a marvel, really, how _open_ the town is. Why, with _one_ step a person might join a friend for tea. Alice had seen just that occur; she’d watched as a man had responded to a friendly hail, had stepped up to the platform where his colleague had been enjoying some sort of soup, had seated himself on the woven bamboo floor – _tatami_ , Mr. Mutsu had called it – and had slid his swords out from his belt and laid them off to the side. From warriors to tea drinkers in a mere step. And never both at the same time.

  
The simplicity charms her, delights her. Even their clothing illustrates simplicity – but not out of laziness or lack of imagination: no, not at all! The robes the woman and even some of the men wear – _kimono_ – are ingenious! There are no buttons, no laces, no _stockings!_ Although, perhaps there _is_ a corset; the wide belts women wear which cover their entire middles look quite... restrictive. Although, perhaps it would have to be considering the lack of buttons and such holding the garment in place.

  
She stares as a woman trots past dressed just so, her wooden sandals kicking up dust.

  
“No, _mikoshi_ not people,” Mr. Mutsu replies, pronouncing the word _people_ as _peeporu_ , pulling her attention back to the summer festival. He points to some sort of structure that... well, it _appears_ to be...

  
“Is there someone _inside_ that?” Alice leans forward, unthinkingly bracing her hand on whatever is beside her. She squints at the lighted structure that moves closer and closer. It appears as if it is being carried on the shoulders of strong men dressed (delightfully scandalously) in only short, white jackets which cross over their chests, showing a great deal of skin from neck to belly, and _very_ short, tight, white drawers which reveal the lower half of their thighs, knees and calves. Alice wonders why they’d bothered to don ankle-high white socks... but, then again, those straw sandals do _not_ look comfortable... They chant as they come, dancing with this odd little... _house_ being carried as a royal person in a litter might. White rags are twisted into thick bands around their foreheads to catch the sweat from their exertions.

  
“No,” Mr. Mutsu answers obligingly. “No one inside. God. God’s house. Iz take from _jinja_ – shrine,” he clarifies before Alice can ask. She takes a second look at it and finally notices the lovingly detailed craftsmanship of the little shrine itself. There’s gold and black lacquer and brilliantly hued enamel or perhaps painted wood.

  
Mr. Mutsu continues his explanation, “Around...” Here he gestures with his hand to indicate a twining route through the streets. “And to shrine again. For...” At this point, the correct word deserts him. He presses his palms together and bows his head over them.

  
“Prayer?” Alice supplies.

  
“Yes, yes. Prayer.” The word, wonderfully enough, sounds like _puraeyah_ when he repeats it back to her.

  
Mr. Mutsu is a long way from speaking proper English, but Alice adores it. She has heard her language twisted and flavored by speakers of many different tongues, but she has never heard it _this_ way before.

  
The boisterous parade dances-trots-bounces past. On certain beats, they lift the _mikoshi_ a bit into the air or tilt it this way or that and Alice chuckles. “I hope God’s enjoying the ride!”

  
She glances at Tarrant, expecting some sort of comment about being _parade-_ sick rather than seasick and perhaps a giggle. His gaze is not even focused on the happy chaos in the street. He stares at her hand, his own twitching as if debating whether or not to grasp hers, which she had placed unthinkingly and _squarely_ on his knee.

  
Blushing – and not from the heat and humidity of the late Japanese summer – Alice removes it immediately.

  
“I beg your pardon,” she murmurs, mortified. It’s one thing to _wish_ to touch him in the privacy of a room empty of people save for the two of them, but it’s quite another to have _actually_ touched him... and on a busy street no less!

  
Tarrant clears his throat. She can barely hear him over the beating of drums and the clanking of what sounds like pans being beaten with sticks. His eyes flicker nervously from her hand, now behaving itself in her lap, to the parade, which he doesn’t appear to see at all, and then back to her hand again.

  
He stutters, “I would not have asked for it. Your begging of my pardon. There is nothing to be pardoned. That is, nothing you did requires a pardon. My pardon. It’s fine.”

  
Is it wrong of her to enjoy seeing him so flustered?

  
“Thank you,” she answers and curls one hand around the other so that she is not tempted to reach for him, even to pat his shoulder reassuringly.

  
The festival continues. Men carry drums that are supported by straps slung across the chest and beat out a heart-pumping rhythm with thick wooden sticks. They stop in the street and some of the performers set down their drums, crouch, and launch into a composition Alice is sure is energetic enough to bridge the distance between these dusty streets and above, reaching all the way to heaven!

  
Dancers join the company: men in those shockingly short pants with intriguingly hideous masks on their faces. Another man plays a simple, wheezing yet harsh tune on a bamboo pipe while others clang their metal pan-like instruments.

  
Alice keeps her hands fisted in her lap, tries not to remember the heat and tautness of the flesh that she had felt beneath her palm, and strains to hear the rhythm in the clamor over the rushing-pounding-racing of her own heart.

  
Even after the festivities have moved on to another neighborhood of the city, Alice’s ears are still ringing.

  
“Have you ever heard such a wonderful racket?” she asks Tarrant as Mr. Mutsu leads them back to their lodgings. (Again, what _odd_ lodgings! Alice has never paid for a room and then been expected to sleep on a pallet on the _floor_ before! But she must admit, the room itself had smelled wonderful. When she’d sniffed appreciatively, Mr. Mutsu had introduced her to the concept of _tatami_.)

  
“Yes,” Tarrant answers and she can feel his arm tense beneath her grasp. She hadn’t expected him to offer her his arm – not after she’d _groped_ him in public! – but he had. Just as he always has. Seeing him hold out his elbow had reassured her that things are, indeed, All Right between them. Or rather, half _right_ and half left. In other words, just as they should be!

  
He continues in a playful tone, “You’ve never caught Thackery at a Witzend Wine Worstment.”

  
“A Witzend Wine Worstment?” she asks. (How many questions has she asked since their arrival in town this morning? Far, far too many to count. Her curiosity _must_ be getting tired.)

  
“Yes, yes. The better the wine, the worse the merrymakers. And, I’ll tell you a secret, Alice,” he elaborates with a conspiratorial glance in her direction. “There are _no_ bad cups to be had of Witzend wine.”

  
She doesn’t imagine the note of longing she hears in his tone. “How long has it been since you’ve indulged?”

  
Tarrant’s expression turns considering and he looks up at the sky. (It’s so _dark_ here! Even on the open sea the waves had reflected the moonlight and starlight! But _here...!_ Alice marvels at the pitch black silence of the Nagasaki streets.)

  
“Mayhap... eight years,” he muses finally.

  
And with three words, Alice also knows how long it has been since Tarrant’s clan had been destroyed by the Jabberwocky. Rather than comment on the duration, she says, “And not even the champagne at London galas, the wine in Paris, or the drink they serve here can compare?”

  
“Nay,” he answers on a wistful sigh. “None can.”

  
It’s on the tip of her tongue to promise him he’ll enjoy Witzend wine again one day, that she’ll laugh with him at Thackery’s antics at the next Worstment. She bursts to make that promise. ( _Is this how people develop rashes?_ Alice wonders. _From trying to contain one’s own rash impulses?_ She can _feel_ them writhing beneath her skin. Perhaps she _will_ have a rash on the morrow...)

  
Despite the desire to do so, Alice says nothing. The words hammer and scream against the back of her teeth, the inside of her cheeks, the seam of her lips. Beside her, Tarrant tenses. His silence changes and expectation is replaced with uncertainty.

  
Mr. Mutsu ushers them inside the two-story wooden inn, which looks much like any other building of business on this street, only a bit longer, perhaps. He hands them over to one of the ladies of the inn, who sees them upstairs with the aid of a lantern and graceful gestures. They stop at Alice’s room first.

  
She gives Tarrant’s arm a gentle squeeze as the lady kneels gracefully in her kimono and, with a serene smile, quietly opens the sliding door.

  
“Good night, Tarrant,” she whispers, mindful of the other guests.

  
“Good night, Alice.”

  
She steps inside and their hostess closes the door in whispering silence. She reaches for her jacket buttons and has half of them unfastened before the floorboards in the hallway creak under Tarrant’s boots. Alice turns toward the closed door with a frown. Why had he hesitated there? She can hear him moving further down the hall now, but he had clearly been waiting outside hers for a moment. Why?

  
She undresses and forgoes her own nightclothes in favor of the nightwear provided by the inn. It takes a bit of doing, but she manages to get the thin, blue-on-white patterned robe to cover her in all the necessary places. And it _is_ comfortable, she admits. Perhaps she’ll have to buy one for herself before they leave...

  
As her bed had already (thankfully!) been laid out and prepared for her, Alice has no excuse to not crawl into it and go to sleep, but she doesn’t. She wanders to the window and fiddles with the wooden shutter until she manages to open it. Unfortunately, as this side of the inn does _not_ face the festivities tonight, everything is unrelentingly dark beyond as if God had spilled his ink pot over the sprawling settlement.

  
She sighs, closes the shutter, and scans the room before setting out to investigate it from top to bottom. She hadn’t been permitted time to do so earlier when they had brought their things to the inn before Mr. Mutsu had taken them to dinner and then the festival.

  
The room is small, simple, and soothing in its subtle earth tones and dark wood. More comforting – less claustrophobic! – than the cabin aboard the ship. She slides her toes over the tatami and considers how delightfully _unchanged_ everything is here. In Hong Kong, Alice had spent most of her time in the British quarter of the city or at the wharf. It had been a little disappointing, arriving in a London neighborhood so far from London itself. She had not expected to travel months on end to merely set foot in familiar surroundings! But _here_ everything is Different! Even now, their permission to be in the country is tentative at best. She has some understanding of the ongoing struggle within the Japanese government over whether or not to open the country to trade, to outsiders, to progress. She had also been informed by the captain of rebellions between states here. He’d reassured her that those conflicts are far removed from their port of call; Alice isn’t worried.

  
No, she is _fascinated._ To be one of the _first_ to enter this enchanting land! To see it as it has been for generations, untouched by British greed and colonization!

  
In that respect, it actually reminds her a bit of Underland.

 _  
Underland..._

  
But before her thoughts can lead her back to that magical, mysterious place, the floorboards in the hall creak again. In fact, they creak in a very similar manner to how they had before, under Tarrant’s boots. Her suspicions are confirmed when the creaking stops just outside the door to her room.

  
She abandons the linen closet she’d just discovered, strides over to the door, cracks it open and peers out...

  
Yes, Tarrant is there, still fully dressed, glaring down the length of the dark hallway with a hand on the pocket where she knows he keeps his revolver.

  
“Tarrant!” she hisses and he jumps. He gives her a sheepish look and his brows twitch in apology.

  
“So sorry, Alice. I thought... That is, should you not be in bed? Asleep, I mean. Should you not be sleeping at this precise moment?” he whispers.

  
She arcs a brow at him. “Whether I should or shouldn’t is not the point. Yes, it’s dark enough to sleep, but that’s hardly a discerning factor. Many things are done in the dark.”

  
When his fist clenches at his side and he swallows visibly, Alice realizes how that must have sounded.

  
“I...” _Damn it all!_ “What I meant was, many people find reasons to stay awake when it’s dark.” _That’s not much better, Alice!_ “Er, galas and so forth. I mean.” _Twit!_

  
Before Tarrant can argue with her, she demands, “Why aren’t _you_ asleep?”

  
“Ye cannae expect mae teh rest kennin’ yer room ‘as _nae_ lock!”

  
Alice gapes at him. Yes, that must have been what he’d hesitated over earlier; he’d been waiting to hear the lock turn... and then when he’d been shown to his room and had realized that there _is_ none... “So... you’re going to stand guard all night?”

  
“Aye.”

  
She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ll be _fine._ We’re perfectly safe. The innkeeper...”

  
“Willnae hear it if’n sommun a-sneaks inteh yer room whilst yer kippin’, puts his grubbin’ hand o’er yer mouth an’... Nae, Alice. I willnae permit it. And –” Alice blinks as his brogue disappears as suddenly as it had come and he continues on a lisp, leaning toward the crack in the door, toward _her._ “I cannot stop _thinking_ it, Alice. Allow me to remain, for my own peace of mind.”

  
She considers his confession for a moment and then replies, “No.”

  
She slides the door open and steps aside before he can articulate the mulish expression forming on his face. “Sleep in here or go back to your room. For _my_ peace of mind.” God knows what the innkeeper would think if she were to find him standing outside Alice’s door, armed, in the middle of the night! Would she call the local guard? Would the captain be notified? No, it’s better to keep this quiet. Although the thought of him in here with _her_ all night is _not_ a thought that makes her _feel_ quiet at all! No, not with her blood screaming through her veins as it is now!

  
“That would be _most_ —” he begins to protest.

  
“—generous and the _only_ offer you’re going to get on the matter. Choose.”

  
He fidgets, looks up the hall then down, and then steps into her room. As is the custom here, he removes his boots just inside the door then pulls it shut behind him.

  
“I consent under protest,” he informs her gravely. “But as I cannot abide by the second alternative, I submit to the first. I am not, however,” he informs her on a growl, “moving from this spot.”

  
“Fine, so I’ll just move the bed over here by myself, then.”

  
She pivots on her heel to do just that.

  
“What? _Alice!_ _No!_ I do _not_ require a bed!”

  
“Well, _I_ require that you have one!” she hisses over her shoulder. “Do you think I’m going to be able to sleep with you looming over me?”

  
He crosses his arms over his chest and glares. “I do not _loom_. Nor have I seen any machine of the sort on the premises.”

  
With her back to him, Alice kneels down, grasps the edge of the pallet and, grunting, drags it toward the doorway he refuses to step away from.

  
“Alice, _stop!_ ” he pleads on a desperate breath. “I’ll just sit with my back against the door. ’Tis _fine!_ ”

  
She ignores him. When the pallet is finally within reach of his longer arms, he reaches out and assists. She stands and lets him position it as he likes. When he finishes, he straightens up but does not meet her gaze.

  
That’s just as well, she muses. She’s feeling rather... _confrontational_ at the moment and who knows what sort of box they might open if their gazes locked.

  
“Where will you sleep?” he lisps softly.

  
Not for the first time, Alice is rather proud of the fact that she has an inquisitive nature. She heads for the skilfully hidden closet, the door to which sits flush with the wall and looks like another panel of walling, and – opening it – pulls out another set of bedding. She has to assemble this one herself – bottom pallet, mattress, coverlet – but that’s for the best; by the time she finishes, the flurry of activity has actually helped calm her.

  
“Here,” she tells him, regarding her new bed under the window. “I’ll sleep here.”

  
“All right.”

  
“Good night, Tarrant,” she says, crawling beneath the cotton-filled quilt. She does not look over her shoulder at him. If he is going to insist on keeping things as _proper_ as possible, considering the circumstances, then she must give him whatever privacy she can. She leans up and over her pillow to snuff the lantern.

  
“Good night, Alice,” he whispers.

  
And, surprisingly, it _is_ a good night. The soft sounds of his breaths lull her to sleep and Alice dreams she’s taking tea with him in a quiet clearing somewhere in Witzend.

 

  
*~*~*~*

 

When in search of high-profit goods, one often finds oneself in the strangest of situations.

  
This is a tenant of the trade business and, yet again, Alice experiences its accuracy. She sits beside Tarrant in an old, rickety farm cart that Mr. Mutsu had hired, and they bounce and jerk along the rutted country road. More than once, her eyelids droop. She yawns. On several occasions, she comes awake with start just as her cheek brushes the shoulder seam on Tarrant ’s jacket. They’d had to leave frightfully early in the morning to make this trip in one day and now Alice wholeheartedly wishes she’d agreed to stay overnight in the village they’ll be visiting today.

  
When Mr. Mutsu had presented her with the option, her only thought had been of Tarrant and his unmanageable and irrepressible protective tendencies: yet, if Alice is to stay in a farmhouse with women, and Tarrant in a separate farmhouse with men, surely that would be all right... But, no: she’d taken one look at his obstinate expression and had had a vision of a Disaster in the making. No doubt he’d spend the night guarding the door to Alice’s residence and instigate all sorts of misunderstandings. No, an overnight stay had been Out Of The Question.

  
Thus far, Tarrant has had the luck and foresight required to ensure that he hadn’t been caught in her room: although he has spent every single one of the last five nights sleeping across the threshold, every single morning, when she had awakened, he had already picked up and stowed his bedding and disappeared back to his room. This morning had been no different. When the innkeeper had called softly and opened Alice’s door to present her with the morning meal, the space Tarrant and his borrowed bed had occupied had been empty.

  
Alice hates that. Someday, when she wakes up in the morning, he will _still be there_. Someday...

  
Alice sighs. Perhaps it is time to revisit his offer. She cannot deny any longer that she most assuredly does _not_ think of him as her kinsman. Still, simply because she is attracted to the man and yes, she _loves_ him – how could she not? – that does _not_ mean that she is ready for marriage and the things that inevitably follow: motherhood, chief amongst them.

  
If she were to agree to his suit and – eventually – wed him... that would mean the end of her career on the seas. A thought which panics her; is she not her own person out here? Does she not command her own life and the direction it takes?

  
And yet, has she not been disenchanted with the life of a trader since that horrid moment in that alley? Is she not tired of serving the pompous and unappreciative rich of London Society?

  
No, she will not miss the trading, the negotiating, and the disappointment when she returns home, disappointment made all the more painful in stark contrast to the praise Lord Ascot unfailingly showers upon her following each completed voyage.

  
“I’m not ready to give up discovering new places, new things,” she murmurs, half to herself and half to her traveling companion.

  
Next to her, Tarrant stiffens. His hands, which had been idle in his lap, begin picking imagined bits of lint and dust and straw off of his trouser pant legs. “I do not wish for you to lose your muchness again, Alice,” he responds quietly.

  
“That’s what a...” Alice hesitates over the word she _ought_ to use. “... the other option is: A losing of muchness. Of the means to be muchy. Of letting go of the much that’s out there. There’s a reason it’s called ‘settling down’,” she hears herself say.

  
They speak too softly for Mr. Mutsu and the sailor the captain had assigned them for the duration of this day trip to hear. And, of course, the farmers – father and son by the look of them – that they’d hired are pulling the cart itself, are both well beyond earshot and well behind the language barrier.

  
Tarrant fidgets, shifts in his seat. She can ’t pretend she hasn’t all but admitted her feelings for him, but she tries.

  
“I beg to differ,” he responds and something about his inflection alerts her to the fact that he means every word. Literally. “It will be what you wish it to be. It need not be a London... affair. In fact, it may be whatever and wherever you like. I don’t wish to see you unhappy.”

  
Alice sniffs back the sting of a tear and smiles wryly at the fact that he will go to any lengths to placate her. Even if it means not mentioning the word that causes her so much distress. “You don’t wish,” she repeats. “Very unimaginative, Hatter.”

  
It’s meant to be a joke, a gentle jest to remind him of simpler times when grammatical inaccuracy and too-literal interpretations had led to harmless, petty misunderstandings.

  
His fingers twitch before he clasps his always-gloved hands together.

  
“I am sorry,” he replies on a breath. “I... if neither option appeals to you, Alice, you may, of course, return the hat. We need never speak of this matter again.”

  
“Is that what you wish?”

  
“I don’t wish,” he reminds her.

  
“And you don’t want,” she concludes.

  
He doesn’t answer. And that, in and of itself, seems to be answer enough.

 

*~*~*~*

 

 **Notes:** (I've put the Chapter Notes here since they exceed the wordcount for the "Notes" field provided by AO3.  Oops.)

 

1\. **Mr. Mutsu** :: Mutsu Yonosuke (but he later changed his name to Mutsu Munemitsu) is an actual historical figure from Japan. In 1867, he was in Nagasaki working with one of Japan ’s first Japan-based and Japanese-run trading companies (founded by Sakamoto Ryoma who was all for the betterment and strengthening of Japan by _embracing_ foreign technology while keeping the heart of Japan “pure”). During this time, many European powers were hoping to colonize Japan, something the Japanese most assuredly and understandably did _not_ want. 

In 1884, nearly twenty years after Alice and Tarrant visit Japan and following the Meiji Restoration (a time when the government of old was reformed and the samurai were no longer considered vassals or in the service of or under the protection of feudal lords – in fact the whole feudal system was abolished completely), Mutsu traveled on diplomatic missions to Europe in order to renegotiate several trade agreements. The new government had (stupidly) agreed that any foreigner who killed a Japanese person on Japanese soil was immune from Japanese prosecution. This issue, among others like the unprofitable tax-free system that had been implemented by the inexperienced new government, became the focus of Mutsu’s work in his later life. My hubby – an enthusiast of this era and Japanese himself – tells me it was very likely Mutsu (who, in this story, is 23 years old) could speak English at this point in time.

  
2\. **Festival** :: Visual references for a typical Japanese summer festival:

To give you a _basic_ idea of what a _mikoshi_ looks like and the sort of costumes the bearers would wear (and I think you can imagine why Alice would be shocked by the outfits... traditionally, the shorts were considerably _shorter_ than shown here):

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000715w/)

 The _mikoshi_ in this picture is not black lacquer and gold... every _mikoshi_ is different.  Google it.  You’ll see.

  
This is a street taiko performance at night, to give you an idea of the atmosphere. The drums are larger than I imagine are used in the story, just FYI:

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/00008sy0/)

   
And, by the way, yes: just as Alice thinks, the beating of drums was originally used to send a message to God.  I’m not fully versed on the significance of Japanese festival traditions, but I think I heard that once upon a time.  If you would like to hear Japanese taiko music, do a search (on the ’Net or YouTube) for a group called Kodo.  They’re uber famous in taiko circles.  [Kodo Tour Promotion Video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPdOmY1BjAU) & [Irodori by Kodo](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSi7PyJMj3A)  And for some serious GurlPower Taiko: Hono o Daiko (or: Hono-o-daiko) [A short clip](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJtAjEwzgks) or [a longer performance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7z2DW0codM). d(^__~)b = two thumbs up!  


  
Various masks (including scary ones) that are worn in traditional Japanese theater and by dancers during _some_ festivals (just because there ’s a festival somewhere in Japan, that doesn’t mean they’d use any of these particular masks... but I have seen some of them):

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/000090k2/)

 

 

3\. **Menswear of 1867 Japan** :: Visual reference for the _typical_ garb of a samurai at this period in time:

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000d9gb/)

 Yes, he is wearing _pants_.  They are pleated and OMG wide in the legs but they are pants.  I have a pair of my own for Japanese Archery (a.k.a. _kyudo_ ).

 

4\. **Japanese Inn (ryokan)** :: The exterior of a typical Japanese inn, or  ryokan , of the time period:

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000ab9g/)

   
This is actually a historically well-known inn in Kyoto called Teradaya which has been in business since the mid 1800s... _at least_.  Maybe (likely) much longer.  I imagine the one Alice and Tarrant stay at in Nagasaki is very similar.  Perhaps a bit longer, actually.

  
And we go up the crazy-narrow stairs:

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000bhyt/)

 

The room on the left is  _way_ nicer than Alice’s room. In the fic, her room is NOT a suite like this one. She has one room. That’s it. No balcony and just a tiny window on one wall (without glass, only a heavy wooden covering that can be propped open).  The room on the right is much closer to what I imagined in the story (but I wanted to show you the pretty, painted sliding doors in the left-hand photo).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000cwsz/)  [](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000kw56/)

 

5\.  **Futons & Tatami** :: The traditional Japanese bed is not called a  _ pallet _ as Alice dubs it. It is called a  _ futon. _ And I love mine. I also love my tatami floor. They do smell really nice... as long as you take proper care of them, that is! (I’ve heard stories about foreigners not moving or airing their futons for years and then finding all kinds of mold growing underneath on the tatami. Like, ew.)

 [](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000qtyz/)

(Please note: this is _not_ my actual futon.)  (^__~)

 

6\. **Lounge wear**   ::  This is what people generally change into before going to bed at an inn or hot spring resort.  They also tromp around in the halls between the bathroom, hot tub, and rooms in this.  Some people wear it to dinner in the communal dining room, but no sandals (or, _geta_ ), of course:

[        
](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000tt4q/)

 

 7. **Civil Unrest in 1867 Japan** :: At this point in Japanese history, things were very tumultuous. Not only were states fighting amongst each other within Japan (due to old feuds and such) but political groups fought against each other over the issue of whether or not to open the country to foreign trade. Also, groups fought over whether or not to support the emperor or the shogun (who was the steward of Japan and actually _ran_ the country until 1868 when he relinquished power to the emperor and the fledgling democratic government).

Fights could and  _did_ break out at any and all times for all sorts of reasons. (Coming across foreigners near  _their_ territory without their _expressed_ permission certainly would have been adequate reason to get all hot and bothered.) 

On the topic of skirmishes and such: one of the shogun ’s Kyoto-based “police forces” (called the Shin Sengumi) were particularly and infamously heavy-handed when apprehending (or assassinating) suspects. Although Alice and Tarrant would not have encountered this particular group in Nagasaki, it just goes to show how much of a powder keg Japan was at the time. 

Also, many samurai feared that this new government would abolish the feudal system and they would lose their status and privilege. Many were concerned that there would be no place for them in this “new Japan” and fought and struggled with  _ each other  _ to secure a stable position for themselves in this volatile political climate.

  
8\. **Farm & Meat Animals** :: People in Japan at this time did not have beasts of burden. No horses, no cows, no oxen. Farming and the transport of goods were done via back-breaking human labor. Of course, this also means that people in Japan did not have meat animals, either. The rich occasionally ate poultry. The main source of meat was (and still is) fish... and the poor probably couldn’t afford to eat it all that often... unless they caught the fish themselves in a river or lake.

  



	7. The Workshop

This is the first port in which Tarrant can truly earn his contract fee and he applies himself to his work with a diligence Alice has never seen before... in _this_ world. For a moment, she’s not standing outside on a lovely afternoon on an autumn-colored mountaintop overlooking the summer-hued vista of Nagasaki below. For an instant she’s in a room that’s too red, surrounded by hats that are too black and standing next to her dearest friend who is too mad.

  
She focuses on him. He’s not mad anymore. No, not in the slightest. Well, not to _her._ He giggles as Mr. Mutsu attempts to explain his request to a very befuddled-looking craftsman. Apparently, not many people specifically ask to _smell_ the dye that is used to make the fabric that has enchanted Tarrant so thoroughly that he had demanded to be permitted this day trip.

  
“How can I determine if this product can be made available in the quantities milliners would require if I do not know _how it is_ _ **made?**_ ”

  
An excellent question. And one Lord Ascot would have wholeheartedly approved of indulging. That _is_ why they’d enlisted the assistance of consultants this time, after all. With the larger trading companies focusing on commodities, Lord Ascot is hoping to carve a niche for their small organization in the specialty sundries market. The employment of not only a milliner, but other tradesmen had been a necessary step in ensuring that the goods purchased would meet the very highest standards in each industry.

  
Alice is not unaware of the irony of the situation: she had been the one to propose this change of direction to Lord Ascot. And Tarrant would not have become a member of the consulting team had she never presented her proposal in the first place. In a way, _she_ is responsible for his presence here. In a way, _she_ had been the one to make all this possible. What she once would have deemed _impossible_ she had _made_ possible with no deliberate plan of her own.

  
She had mentioned this to Tarrant once, aboard _The Wonder_. They’d stood side-by-side on the bow. It had taken Tarrant a long time to get his “sea legs”, but he’d found them at last, much to his obvious relief. Alice had congratulated him on it and he’d replied:

  
“I fear I was learning far _too_ much about the durability of the ship’s cosmetic applications.”

  
“That would be my fault. Indirectly,” she’d replied.

  
“How so?”

  
As the wind had whipped by them, Alice had confessed, “This was my idea; change our business focus to high-end sundries in the specialty and crafts market. I suggested to Lord Ascot we’d have to hire on consultants to assist us with choosing quality goods.”

  
He’d grinned and she’d known he’d grasped the miracle of it all. “Then I must thank you, Alice, for my current employment.”

  
“No thanks are needed. Nor have they been earned. I didn’t plan it to turn out like this.”

  
“But Alice, the _best_ plans are the ones that aren’t made at all.”

  
A plan that is not made...

 _  
A miracle._

  
Alice had felt quite proud of herself for solving that riddle. It’s Tarrant’s way to speak in riddles that express more than frank speech ever could. And now she is faced with another:

 _  
I do not wish; I do not want..._

  
She fears she knows the meaning of this one, too.

  
She watches him wait rather impatiently for the outcome of the negotiations taking place. In truth, her presence hadn’t even been required on this trip, but she’d been curious as to village life up here in the mountains and, as leader of this trade expedition, she’d nominated herself Tarrant’s assistant. He hadn’t protested despite the laughable notion that she can assist _him_ with anything concerning a trade he knows ins, the outs, and the soft, fleshy underbelly of like he knows his own hat.

  
His hat... no, not the one he’s wearing today (a chestnut brown top hat with a violet band and a cluster of red cardinal feathers just to the left-of-center as seen from the front) but the one he’d given her. How many mistakes has she made with regards to that hat? How badly has she abused it? Out of ignorance or hubris? No, she’s never handled it roughly and it is, even now, safe in its box and locked in her cabin aboard the ship. But all that the gift had been meant to symbolize, the affections of its former master, and its former owner himself... she must take more care with _him!_

  
Mr. Mutsu manages to placate the craftsman... or perhaps convince him of Tarrant’s sincerity or competence. The man smiles and the gesture pulls his dark, season-roughened skin into deep lines of welcome. He gestures emphatically, waving his hand to and fro as if shooing away a pest; where Alice would have hesitated at the mixed signals, Tarrant doesn’t.

  
“That mean go to him,” Mr. Mutsu says unnecessarily as Tarrant steps forward, pulling off his gloves and shoving them into a trouser pocket before shrugging out of his colorful – indigo today! – jacket. The pair – one short, stocky and sun-baked and the other tall, slender and pale – disappear into the nearest building. The screens and door panels had been removed, permitting the breeze to blow through the humble workshop. Tarrant toes off his boots and excitedly hurries after the craftsman into the depths of the modest, earthen structure. He easily ignores the giggles and laughter of the children clustered nearby; they are entertained by his stockings – more vibrant than his hair and less of a matched pair than his eyes. Alice does not follow him. She can see him just fine from here, and in all honestly, she would not be interested in looking at anything else.

  
However...

  
“Mr. Mutsu,” she says as he moves to follow them. “If you would assist me for a moment?”

  
“Mr. Hightopp?”

  
She glances toward the interior of the large hut where Tarrant is gesturing quite... animatedly. “He’ll be fine for a moment. If you would assist me with the delivery of our gifts?”

  
Alice follows Mr. Mutsu’s lead. Bowing and holding out the basket of fish they’d brought from the market, she stumbles through the phrase she’d requested he teach her – “ _Kore, tsumaranai mono desu ga, doozo..._ ” – to express her thanks for their hospitality. She also passes on a larger basket of fruit and vegetables which are received with avid enthusiasm by the children.

  
At this point, Alice asks Mr. Mutsu to go see if Tarrant requires his translation skills and Alice turns back to the women who are exclaiming over the fish. The kind or quality or quantity, she’s not sure.

  
Alice clears her throat to draw their gaze, points to herself, and the to the women, and then to the fish and mimes a motion she hopes looks... helpful. She would like to help clean and prepare lunch with them, if they will allow her to. It would certainly take her mind off of... things.

  
But, laughing good-naturedly, they refuse her. A few minutes later, Alice finds herself sitting at a low table in what is undoubtedly the nicest home of in the entire village, and yet painfully modest. She listens to the women as they work in the backyard, cleaning and scaling the fish. The older children sort through the produce and wash the items their mothers and aunts and older sisters direct them to. It’s a picture of domestic bliss. Happiness.

  
But, Alice wonders if it will ever be _for her._ Will she ever want this? Want to be part of a scene like this?

  
She fiddles with a pair of chopsticks. She’s always had trouble with the things. She’d tried countless times in Hong Kong to master them and Tarrant has giggled at her incurable clumsiness at every shared mealtime since their arrival. This pair slips and tumbles through her grasp when she tries to manipulate them. With a frustrated huff, she sets them down and tries to focus on enjoying the breeze, the shade, the atmosphere of this place she never expected to see... and may never visit again.

  
She startles as her hair catches on something. Turning, she sees a small girl... perhaps eight years old, scuttle back with wide eyes. Before she can turn tail and run, Alice smiles, chuckles, and makes that odd “shooing” gesture that Mr. Mutsu had explained as meaning “come here.” The girl creeps forward, curious.

  
Alice likes that look. She has always enjoyed curiosity, both her own and that of others’. She turns and collects the chopsticks, positions them in her right hand, moves them a bit, and watches as they clatter back to the table.

  
The girl laughs, her delight ringing through the mud-and-thatch dwelling like bells made from flower petals and hardened in the frost of early spring.

  
“Help?” Alice asks.

  
The girl clamors closer and kneels at the table next to her. She taps Alice’s gloves and although Alice can’t understand a word of what she’s saying, she obligingly removes them. She tucks them into her belt and returns her attention to her teacher.

  
Her teacher stares at her skin, reaches out a finger and gently traces the blue line of a vein. “ _Shiroi hada..._ ” she informs Alice with a smile and then holds our her own hand. “ _Kuroi!_ ”

  
Alice laughs with her but then splays her fingers on the table and counts them. “One... two... three... four... five.” She then points to each of the girl ’s fingers and counts: “One... two... three... four... five!”

  
They cannot understand each other, true, but there is a glimmer of meaning there, of comprehension. They smile and giggle and then the girl picks up the chopsticks and holds them. “ _Mite kudasai. Kore. Kore._ ”

  
Alice curves her fingers to mimic the girl’s and she slides the chopsticks into Alice’s grip. For a moment, Alice simply stares at the the things. The girl giggles and wiggles her fingers, obviously encouraging Alice to give them a try. Warily, she does.

  
And, amazingly, they do not spring out of her grasp immediately.

  
Alice _beams_ and practices pinching bits of air between the tips. Her teacher gives her a soft pat on the shoulder in praise.

  
Alice looks up to thank her and that’s when she notices a brewing tension out in the village center. An officious looking man wearing the dark robes of the swordsmen in town is speaking forcefully to a strong, able-bodied villager she thinks must be the head of this cluster of people. As Alice watches, the agitated newcomer looks up and frowns fiercely in her direction. With a gesture over his shoulder, a half dozen other sword-carrying men, step up into Alice’s field of view.

  
Beside her, the little girl has frozen.

  
Perhaps _that_ is why a chill skitters down her own spine?

  
Outside several other village men join the first. They are dressed shabbily, yes, but they also carry swords tucked into their belts.

  
“Mr. Mutsu,” Alice breathes. “Mutsu- _san_.” She glances at the girl and repeats her request _firmly._ “Mutsu- _san_.”

  
The girl nods and grabs Alice’s wrist. The confrontation in the center of the cluster of humble homes is heating up. There are shouts now and angry gesturing toward Alice and also the seaman who is still standing awkwardly beside the cart they’d arrived on.

  
Before Alice manages to gain her feet, both groups outside are closing ranks on each other. She doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to imagine that they’re the equivalent of a tossed glove away from drawing swords.

 _  
“Nigero!_ ” the girl shouts, shoving Alice out the back of the house. She stumbles in her stockinged feet and spares a brief thought for her shoes which are outside the front door leaning against the worn step. But then more hands – the hands of her hostesses – are pushing her toward the forest. All around her she hears the same word spoken again and again:

  
“ _Nigero!_ ”

  
“ _Nigero!_ ”

  
“ _Nigero!_ ”

  
She has never heard it before today, but she knows what it means: _Run!_

  
And just like she had done at Salazen Grum, she does. She does not know where Tarrant is. She does not know if Mr. Mutsu can help him. She thinks of the seaman, hopes he has enough self-preservation to make himself scarce. She limps, stumbles, flails her way into the forest. Her heart is swollen with too many beats and stuck in her throat and its so hard to _focus!_ _Why is it so hard to focus?_ She must _think!_ But what can she do even then? How will _thinking_ solve this problem? She is in a wood without shoes and she does not know where Tarrant is and she does not know what those men will do if they catch _him or_ _catch her!_

  
Her revolver is in her pocket. Should she stop here? Make a stand? She has five bullets. There are more than five of them.

  
She lurches further into the dense tangle of brush. Pressure builds within her, blinds her. She panics, tears her trousers and long jacket on the ends of grasping branches. The trees catch her hair and her frantic mewl echoes along with her thrashing, crashing through the woods.

  
Alice yanks herself free from a particularly vengeful thicket of bushes and her mind clears. For a moment, she pauses, catches her breath, covers her mouth with her hand so that she might be able to _listen._

  
And then the pressure builds again. She gasps, spins, and throws herself deeper into the forest. _They are coming for her! She can_ _ **feel**_ _it!_

  
The bout of mind-blanking panic consumes her. For how long it holds her in its black, animalistic grasp, she does not know. When she comes to herself again, she’s crouched behind a tree, shivering, her hands and wrists scratched and punctured to bleeding, her fingernails caked with mud and last year’s rotting debris. She scans the forest, checks her pocket for her revolver, then leans back against the nearest tree and tries to _breathe_.

  
The moment of peace is too short.

  
The _feeling_ comes again. The pressure. Someone is out there. Seeking her. Pulling...

  
Alice gasps, struggles to keep a firm hold on her mind.

 _  
Tarrant!_ she realizes and the panic disappears in direct proportion to her dawning understanding. Tarrant is _Choosing_ her.

  
Yes, of course! The Jabberwocky blood! How utterly _stupid_ of her to forget about it!

 _  
Tarrant..._ she thinks, wishes, _Accepts._

  
And then he’s there, not two steps away from her. “ _Alice!_ ”

  
She reaches for him. He takes one stumbling step in her direction, lifts his hands – his _bare_ hands – toward her and then he pulls them back, fumbling in his pockets. “Alice, your gloves. Put on your gloves, Alice.”

  
Her momentum sends her crashing forward. Her bruised palms take the brunt of it. “Gloves?” she repeats to the inanimate forest floor. “ _Gloves?!_ ” Here she is, frightened out of her life, a bit battered and rather sore _all over_ – both without and within! – and completely drained and in need of just _one moment with his arms around her and he demands_ _ **gloves?!**_

  
She staggers to her feet and inquires once more, “ _Gloves?_ ” Even before she has finished biting off the word, her bare hand is set on a course for his face.

  
He ducks unsteadily and she knocks his lovely hat off of his head.

  
“What have gloves to do with _anything?_ ” she shouts.

  
“One or two things!” he replies, stumbling back as she takes another step in his direction.

  
Her hands fist. She’s tempted to pursue, to strike out. The next assault will not be an open-handed slap, however. The next blow she aims at him would consist of a fist and deliberate intent and she...

  
She...

  
No matter how much she is hurting and lost and frightened at the moment, she will _not_ do that to him.

  
Alice turns away, reaches for the gloves she’d tucked into her belt.

  
They’re gone.

  
She searches the leaf-strewn ground but they are _long_ gone and likely far away. Somewhere between here and the village.

  
Lost.

  
And Tarrant will not let her touch him without them. Exhausted, she wraps her arms around herself.

  
“Alice.”

  
“I don’t have my gloves,” she answers, shakily.

  
“Are ye well, lass?”

  
She shakes her head and gazes up into the yellowing treetops and the fall colors remind her of the phenomenon of Tarrant’s eyes. “Why would I be? I’ve run I don’t know how far and without shoes. I’ve fallen I don’t know how many times without gloves. And the one thing that _might_ make things a _bit_ better is denied me because I cannot _choose!_ ”

  
“Choose, Alice?” he lisps, his boots crunching in the leaves as he moves a step closer.

  
“Yes, _choose!_ I know you’re waiting and I’m _sorry!_ You deserve an answer and... and...” She struggles against a sob and forces out through gritted teeth: “I’d just like to be _close_ to you! To touch you _once!_ Is that so much to ask?”

  
She does not hear the moment of silence that follows so much as she _feels_ it.

  
“You know it is,” he answers in a soft, puzzled, _needing_ tone.

  
Her bark of laughter bangs around in the forest before diluting completely.

  
“That’s what you think, is it? That I _know?_ ” She turns and glares. “Don’t you remember, Tarrant? I _don_ ’ _t_ know.”

  
“You don’t _know?_ ” he checks, his eyes narrowing, re-evaluating.

  
In answer, she turns away again. She can feel the heat of tears coming and she does not want to cry in front of him. Or, at least, not where he can _see._ She makes an effort to relax her face, draws a deep breath, but senses it’s useless. They’re coming and there’s nothing she can do to stop them.

  
“Alice,” he whispers, stepping closer still. “I hate the morning. I... _dream_ of you... of touching you... and then I wake up to the truth: I can’t. Did the queen not tell you _why?_ You said you saw her, when you returned, on the Unshattermade...”

  
She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers as the first, hot tears overflow. “What is it you think she told me?”

  
He takes another step and places his gloved hands on her hunched shoulders. “’Tis th’ Jabberwock blud,” he explains softly. “If’n our skin were teh touch, even by no deliberate intent o’ our own, the blud will out.”

  
“Out?” she asks.

  
“Aye. Neither o’ us woul’ be able teh travel teh Underland by Choosin’. We woul’ have teh find ano’her way.”

  
She closes her eyes. Lowers her head. Nods. “Yes, I understand. You’ve a cup of Witzend wine waiting for you there and—”

  
“ _Alice!_ ” His hands tighten, his fingertips curl into her muscles painfully, press against her collarbone. “ _I d_ ’ _nae care abou_ ’ _th_ ’ _bluddy wine! I—!_ ”

  
He pauses and Alice looks up and off into the distance. She’d heard something just now. Something other than Tarrant’s voice and her own heartbeat and wild imaginings and incorrigible hope and...

  
“Did you hear something?” Tarrant muses softly.

  
She nods.

 _  
There!_

  
Alice focuses on the sounds in the distance... approaching sounds. Glimpses swaths of dark fabric, the garb of aristocratic men... men with swords... men who had objected to their presence here.

  
Between her and Tarrant, the two of them have enough ammunition but she is not sure if she can hit her target amongst these trees! She is not sure if Tarrant can, either.

  
“ _Fez!_ ” he swears.

  
Swears, and gives Alice an Idea.

  
She pulls away from him, turns, and meeting his gaze (his eyes have gone bright yellow with worry and fear and whatever else) she commands, “Follow me.”

  
And then she Chooses.

 

*~*~*~*

 

She falls _up_ , lands, and opens her eyes.

  
It’s dark.

  
For a moment, she panics. _Why is it dark?_

  
But then, as she gropes about and her fingers encounter wood paneling, she relaxes. Sighs with relief. She runs her hands over the wall.

  
Yes, she is precisely where she’d Chosen to be.

  
And a moment later she can _feel_ him. Choosing her. She grimaces, closes her eyes and Reaches for him even as she wonders if he’d felt like this every morning and night. If he’d endured this sensation that pulls one’s heart from within one’s chest, this pain that burns through one’s mind and leaves nothing but desperation, this _need_ that must be answered or it will tear one limb-from-limb.

  
In her panic earlier, in the forest, and in the heart-pounding wake of realization, she had not been able to properly appreciate this agony. She feels it _all_ now.

  
“Alice?”

  
She gasps in the dark, nods, but realizing that he can’t see it, grits out, “Yes—I’m—here!”

  
“Ye foolish, lass! Nex’ time, le’me gauw afore _ye!_ ”

  
She might take him up on that, actually. Bloody _ow!_ She keeps her hands to herself as he moves closer. She judges the distance he travels through the soft rustle of his clothing and his booted steps.

  
Boots. Lucky for him.

  
“Alice,” he asks, his gloved fingers gently pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Where are we?”

  
Her confidence wavers. “You... don’t... recognize it?”

  
Slowly, her own eyes are beginning to adjust to the dull light that filters in through the windows from the street. Her breath nearly caught, Alice straightens and moves toward the front door.

  
“You brought us to my shop?” he queries in disbelief. “To London?”

  
“That’s what I intend to confirm,” she answers, reaching the front door and fiddling with the lock.

  
“But _why?_ ”

  
“You said _‘Fez’_ ,” she reminds him and then her dirt-caked fingers find the small lever on the lock mechanism and the door swings open.

  
“ _Alice!_ ” he hisses, striding toward her. No doubt he means to stop her from going out onto the street and, in all honesty, she probably shouldn’t – not without shoes and wearing naught but torn stockings on her bleeding feet – but she _needs_ to know if it had really worked. Had she truly _Thought_ herself back in London?

  
It’s an unusually nice night. The moon is out and the street lamps are still burning. She can hear the vague sounds of traffic far, far in the distance. Perhaps opera patrons on their way home via coach? Or is it too late at night for... respectable, recreational activities?

  
Tarrant stands in the doorway, hesitates, as Alice turns around, takes in the familiar window displays and looks up – for the first time – at the sign above the door.

 _  
____________________________________

 _Hats for Alice_

 _Tarrant Hightopp, Milliner in Residence  
____________________________________

 

It’s not until Tarrant calls her name – quite clearly! – that she realizes she’s staring.

  
“You... This... Your shop’s name. It’s not on your calling card,” she hears herself complain. She still has that calling card, although it’s aboard _The Wonder_ at the moment. Safe. Far. Half the world away.

  
“It does,” he argues. “It’s given on the regular cards.”

  
“It’s not on mine.” She finally lowers her gaze, looks at him.

  
He leans against the doorway, bracing himself with his arms. “No, it isn’t. I didn’t give you a _regular_ calling card.”

  
“What _did_ you give me?”

  
“My... personal one.” Ah, yes. So he had. She’d forgotten. But that reminds her of another point she’d meant to raise with him...

“With Mamoreal and _The Wonder_ on it?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“And has no one commented on your choice of illustrations?”

  
“No.”

  
“That’s... surprising.”

  
“No, not really. Not when you consider the fact that I only ever made the one.”

  
“One?”

  
“Yes, just the one card.”

  
Alice can feel herself gaping again. “And you gave it to me?”

  
“To whom else, Alice? It has been meant for you and only you since I sketched those images. Now, _please_ , come inside...”

  
Numb, she does. She lets Tarrant shut out the light from the gas lamps on the street and lock the door behind her.

  
“Tarrant?”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Why did you follow me to London? After the battle on Frabjous Day?”

  
There’s another moment of resounding silence, just like that moment in the forest when he had finally understood the depth of her ignorance.

  
“The queen... did not mention this either?” he does not ask but assumes.

  
“No. She said there was some... confusion over what you said before you drank from the vial.”

  
He sighs. “Of course. Of course. I was hardly lucid at that point. Too many thoughts, you know. It gets terribly crowded at times. Terribly, although it’s quieter with you here. As usual.”

  
“Tarrant, what did you _intend_ to say?”

  
He takes a deep breath. “Alice... why did you leave Underland?”

  
She huffs with impatience, but agrees to play his game of Questions Only. “Because I had things that needed to be done here.”

  
“No,” he answers.

  
“No?”

  
“You left... because you had to choose.”

  
Alice blinks in the near-darkness of Tarrant’s shop.

  
He continues, “That is the _problem_ , you see. Underland, Upland... You had to choose. And I... if you have no objections, Alice, I should very much like to be part of that choice, whichever choice you make. Underland, Upland: it makes no difference to me. And, should you choose Upland, perhaps your family will not be... put off by our friendship.”

  
Alice regards him in the darkness. His form is barely more than an outline, more solid and darker than the other vague shadows around them despite the fact that he is so very pale and he is in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat; his jacket is still somewhere on a mountaintop in Japan.

  
“Did you do all of this... for me?” she dares to ask. “Hats for Alice?”

  
“Of course. What else could bring me here?”

  
“Curiosity?”

  
“Want.”

  
“Want?”

  
“Yes. I _do_ want, Alice.” He pauses and then whispers, “Alice.”

  
And this time she cannot fool herself into believing the sound of her name is not the sum total of his necessities in life. He had followed her here, had worked day in and day out to build a business and reputation that would bring him into _her_ circle.

  
“The gala...” They’re more breath than words but he hears them nonetheless.

  
“Yes, that _is_ the benchmark of success in this town, is it not? When I received my first invitation, I...” He swallows. “I am sorry it took me so very long to earn it, Alice.”

  
“But... every day, I _Chose_ you and...” She recalls the horrid pain of it when _he_ had Chosen _her._ “Did it always feel so wretched?”

  
“No.”

  
And yet that one word is not a reassurance. In that single syllable, Alice reads another layer, another answer: _No, it was worse._

  
Of course it was. He had wanted to see her, had W _anted!_ And yet had had to force himself to refuse her. Again and again and again... Twice daily, morning and night. For two years, seven months, nineteen days. And why had he done it? Why had he suffered this burden? For her.

  
The words _I_ ’ _m sorry_ will never be adequate recompense for having endured... _that._

  
But, she can think of something that _might_ be a good start.. _._

  
“I’m ready,” she tells him calmly.

  
His breath escapes him in a rush of relief. “All right. I’ll take us back. Follow me. Agreed, Alice?”

  
“Yes.” She’s a little disappointed that he’d misunderstood. But a little relieved as well. Yes, for this revelation, she would very much like to see his expression.

  
In the blink of an eye, he is gone.

  
And in the next, she opens herself up to the Truth in her heart and in her mind: she Chooses _him_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Familiar Line? :: “The best plans are the ones that aren’t made at all” might sound familiar: it was originally part of an OPK Book 1 outtake that I shared on my Live Journal a while back. I’m glad it found a new home in this story because I am crazy in love with that line. (^__~)
> 
> 2\. Japanese Phrases  
> (a) Kore, tsumaranai mono desu ga, douzo... means “Please take this small token of my appreciation” or, more literally, “This is an inconsequential thing, but please take it.” It’s used when giving gifts with humility.  
> (b) Shiroi hada... means “White skin...”  
> (c) Kuroi! means “Dark” or “Black” in color. The two are not really differentiated between when it comes to having a Serious Suntan or naturally dark skin.  
> (d) Mite kudasai. Kore. Kore. means “(Please) look. Here. Like this.”  
> (e) Nigero! (pronounced knee – geh [as in “get”] – roh) means “Get out of here!” Or, more literally, “Escape!”
> 
> 3\. Farm Houses :: This is a website featuring lots of very lovely images of a historical mountain village in Japan. I’ve been here and it’s really like going back in time: [Gokayama Village, Toyama Prefecture, Japan](http://www.don-san.com/Gokayama.html)
> 
> Also, here is the interior of [a very wealthy farmer’s house](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0000ekey/). In this picture we can see a tatami room with an irori (or firepit-style hearth) set into it. (As you can imagine, fire was a serious risk in houses like these.) Most families did not have furniture and many slept on woven straw pallets. Everyone. Together. At the same time. (How did these people manage to have kids?!?!)


	8. The Partnership

Despite the canopy of the trees which successfully dapple the sunlight, the brightness of midday blinds her when she Arrives.

  
“Tarrant?”

  
“Here,” he assures her, one gloved hand curling around her upper arm, steadying her.

  
She sighs. “I can’t see a thing.”

  
“Close your eyes,” he suggests in a gentle tone. The advice is so contrariwise, it _must_ be effective. She complies.

  
“Where are we?”

  
“Not far from the village.”

  
She tilts her head to the side. “I don’t hear anything.”

  
“A good sign, in this case.”

  
Alice has to agree. There are no sounds of battle, no cries of woe or grief. Could it be that no injuries or fatalities occurred? That no swords had been drawn at all? Dare she hope that’s the case?

  
“What happened? Did you see? Is Mr. Mutsu and Mr. Phillips...?”

  
“Both are fine,” he assures her. His thumb moves over her arm in firm, comforting motions. “Mr. Mutsu interceded. It seems a meeting of two Prides requires an level head to end well.”

  
Ah, yes. She _had_ gotten that sense: more than once since their arrival she has seen a brewing argument circumvented by the mediating efforts of a third party. “Have they gone?”

  
“Perhaps they have gone,” he speculates. “Or perhaps the villagers have more guests for lunch.”

  
“It’s lucky we brought the gifts we did.”

  
“Very fortuitous,” he agrees. “Or an act of foresight on Mr. Mutsu’s part. He’s very wise, you know.”

  
“Saganistute,” she gently corrects him and his thumb moves again over her sleeve.

  
“Yes.”

  
She blinks open her eyes once, twice, three times.

  
“Don’t rush. We’re safe here.”

  
But it annoys her to not be able to _see!_

  
Finally, despite a tear or two, she manages to keep them open. “What will we do now?” she asks as he releases her arm.

  
“We wait.” He takes a seat and leans against a tree trunk. With a bright smile, he pats the ground beside him. With a brief puff of laughter-shaped breath, she takes the offered seat. “This is the way you came before,” he tells her, pointing to a few snags of thread on a nearby bush that match her jacket. “Mr. Mutsu will find us. I fear we may have panicked earlier. It was most likely he we... disappeared from. However, I am confident he will rescue us here.”

  
Yes, he undoubtedly will. And soon. Surprisingly, she does not feel nervous at the thought of the impending deadline. Nor is she comforted by the thought of things returning to _normal_. She remains... calm.

 _  
This is the right choice,_ she thinks, believes, _knows._

  
Alice leans her head back against the tree trunk and looks up through the boughs still laden with foreign-shaped leaves. She sighs. “After we manage to get ourselves rescued,” she begins, “I think I would like to get married.”

  
Beside her, Tarrant seems to stop breathing. Yes, that announcement _had_ been a bit... sudden. But that makes it no less true. She rolls her head to the side and regards him. He stares at her, his eyes Seeking, his brows twitching with Questions.

  
“But,” she continues blithely, “I don’t want to be a mother, or at least not yet. Nor do I want to settle down. I want... travel and new lands and strange eating utensils and funny-shaped hats and _adventure._ I want _adventure_ , Tarrant.”

  
Yes, he _is_ holding his breath. A bad habit, that. Suppose he passes out and then she’d have to repeat herself when he comes back around! “I want all those things, but, more than that, I’d like a companion to share them with.”

  
“That... is an admirable goal,” he rasps. “And, there are ways to... manage the time one chooses to start a family.” She can tell he’s trying to remain neutral, calm, collected. His efforts are not quite managing it, however. He clears his throat. Despite that his voice remains hoarse, strained. “Have you a... particular companion in mind for this life of adventure?”

  
“I do,” she informs him. She smiles. “And I’m sitting next to him at the moment.”

  
There’s a long moment of contemplative silence that winds tighter and tighter with tension by the second. Finally, Tarrant cannot seem to stop himself from pointing out, “Alice... _I’m_ sitting next to you at the moment.”

  
“Yes, I know.”

  
The breeze rustles through the drying, dying leaves above their heads.

  
She keeps her gaze trained on his face so that when the slow, hopeful grin curving his dark lips begins to form, she sees it from inception to fruition. His green eyes don’t so much _focus_ on her as _unfocus_ with delight.

  
He says, “... _oh_.”

  
She holds still as his gloved left hand reaches out toward her. He pauses, uncertainty making a brief visit on his features. His hand is close enough that Alice separates a lock of hair from the remaining tangled mass and gently winds the end around the base of his ring finger.

  
“Something that must not be used, nor used up, nor ever thrown away,” she tells him. “Do you accept, Tarrant Hightopp?”

  
“I do,” he whispers wonderingly, molding his trembling, gloved hand gently to her cheek. “I _do_.”

  
And, one day soon, she hopes he will. Do _many_ things, that is. But for now, that must wait. For now _they_ must wait to be found, to be rescued and cleaned up and taken back to Nagasaki. And _then..._

  
And then they will make their _own_ path.

  
And thus the _rest_ of their adventure will begin.

 

*~*~*~*

   
This lovely fanart is by [](http://clarice1682.livejournal.com/profile)[**clarice1682**](http://clarice1682.livejournal.com/)    
Please visit the full-size art [HERE](http://clarice1682.livejournal.com/8510.html) and leave some praise for her!

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/0001dttt/)

 

*~*~*~*

 

In the end, Alice does not choose a kinship with Tarrant Hightopp. Nor does she choose a courtship. That he understands this is clear in every gesture he makes.

  
When they hear the sound of someone approaching – not from the direction of the village, but from further up the mountain – he stands, placing himself between Alice and the newcomer. Aching and weary, she lets him. Mr. Mutsu appears a few moments later, holding Tarrant’s top hat – the one she’d knocked off his head earlier – and explains the situation in the village. All is fine; everyone will eat the afternoon meal together; they are waiting for him to return with Alice and Tarrant. Tarrant returns his hat to his head and then offers his gloved hands to Alice. Leaning heavily on him, she hobbles through the woods and back to their hosts.

  
When they arrive, Tarrant asks Mr. Mutsu to arrange for some boiled water.

  
“Give me your stockings, Alice. I will see what I can do with them.”

  
“They’re utterly ruined,” she warns him, carefully peeling them off.

  
“No doubt,” Tarrant replies, his gaze resting briefly on her bared feet and ankles. “But there may be a half day of use in them yet.” She watches him collect his small sewing kit from his no-longer-abandoned jacket pocket and, moments later, she has a neatly darned pair of half-stockings. They do not have a heel and they will no doubt bunch within her boots if she walks too far in them, but they will serve their purpose and protect her battered feet from the leather of her boots.

  
A small pot of steaming water is delivered and Tarrant unhappily hands Alice his handkerchief. “I’m afraid it’s not possible for me to assist you with your wounds at the present time.”

  
She smiles reassuringly and, using a pair of chopsticks as tongs, dips the square of cotton into the water. “It’s fine.” After letting the excess water drain from the handkerchief, she tends to her face, following Tarrant’s directions. Sometimes they get their lefts and rights confused and Tarrant giggles and she laughs and before too long she’s clean and her feet are stockinged. Tarrant picks debris from her hair and declares her ready for lunch.

  
She manages not to embarrass herself when she’s presented with a second pair of chopsticks and a bowl of rice topped with vegetables and salted fish. Tarrant clicks his chopsticks at her in acknowledgment of her new skill and grins his congratulations.

  
Tarrant finishes his practical demonstration of the dye technique they had come to see. The swordsmen linger in the village and, although the atmosphere surrounding them is one of wary acceptance and unconcealed suspicion, there are no further arguments.

  
They leave shortly thereafter.

  
In the cart, Alice daringly holds his hand. One of the children had been sent after her gloves and she’d donned them once more. She brushes her thumb back and forth over the base of his ring finger.

  
“There is one thing I... _we_ must do first,” she tells him.

  
He doesn’t ask what it is. Perhaps because it doesn’t matter: whatever it is, he will do; _they_ will do. Together.

  
But he is still hesitant. After so many months of waiting, to be at long last presented with her decision, her choice, her answer... He must be wondering if this is all dream.

  
“Are you sure?” he asks on a whisper.

  
“Yes,” she replies and, smiling, he does not ask again.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Mamoreal, it seems, runs on London time.

  
Alice squints against the glare of the afternoon sun and raises a hand to shield her eyes. “Blast it all,” she grumbles and Tarrant runs a gloved hand soothingly down her spine to the curve of her lower back. Rather a _forward_ gesture in London. Luckily they aren’t _in_ London at the moment. In fact, as far as everyone else Up There is concerned, Tarrant is in his room at the inn in Nagasaki and Alice is in hers and they are settled for the night following their very eventful day trip.

  
“What are you smirking at?” Tarrant demands in a delighted tone. “You haven’t even _seen_ what the queen is wearing yet!”

  
“Oh, and you have?”

  
He giggles. “Care to place a wager on it? Will she be wearing more white or less white?”

  
Alice cautiously lowers her hand. Before she can name her terms, a breathy, melodic voice calls out, “Alice! Tarrant!”

  
Alice blinks as rather large and indistinct Whiteness floats toward them. Her eyes adjust enough for her to identify not only the White Queen but her contingent of courtiers traversing the castle drive toward them.

  
“Your Majesty,” Tarrant greets, his hand still resting on Alice’s waist. Alice doesn’t doubt that the queen – and each and every one of the courtiers! – notice. She discovers that, interestingly enough, she rather _likes_ the fact that they know. Yes, Tarrant is _hers_ and she is _his_ and she has never felt so strong or so complete in her entire life.

  
“You have returned!” the queen enthuses, her fingers waggling in the air.

  
“But we’re late,” Alice apologizes. “It took... longer than I expected.”

  
The queen smiles knowingly. There’s even the hint of a tease in her expression. “But _not_ longer than necessary!” She turns toward Tarrant and observes, “So, you finally permitted Alice to find you?”

  
He nods.

  
The queen smiles. Her gaze is drawn upward and a small puzzled frown pulls at her brow for a moment before it clears, morphs into hopeful speculation. “And your hat?”

  
Alice answers this question. “Has been offered and accepted.”

  
At this point, the queen glances at the lack of distance between them, the arm that spans Alice’s back and muses, “Then... are congratulations in order?”

  
“Yes,” Tarrant lisps confidently. Apparently, he has decided that this is _not_ a dream, and that reality is very much to his liking.

  
“Wonderful!” she enthuses and the crowd behind her murmurs with sycophantic approval. Turning toward a seemingly randomly chosen courtier, the queen wonders aloud, “How long has it be since we’ve enjoyed a evening of music and dancing?”

  
“Too long, Your Majesty.”

  
Tarrant clears his throat. “I beg your pardon, but...”

  
The queen turns back to them, meets first Tarrant’s gaze and then Alice’s. Her smile fades into a look that is both wistful and understanding. “But you have no plans to stay.”

  
Alice nods.

  
“Ah. In that case, please follow me!” The White Queen excuses herself and her guests from the cluster of curious onlookers and leads them up the drive and into the castle. “I understand, Alice, Tarrant,” she says before they can start in on their excuses and reasons. “There is much to see and do in Upland, is there not?”

  
“Yes,” Alice agrees, feeling wretchedly selfish despite the queen’s generous acceptance.

  
“Hm...” the queen murmurs in agreement, leading them into the castle kitchens. Alice nearly ducks reflexively as she enters, but Thackery is not present today, either. “Well, at least stay for tea.”

  
“That sounds lovely,” Alice replies, glancing at Tarrant. He nods: yes, he _would_ like to see his friends before they return to the inn in Nagasaki. And so the queen summons the fish butlers and frog footmen and sends them out with invitations for tea. The queen waves Alice and Tarrant toward the table which is being set by a pair of flamingos in very smart tuxedo jackets.

  
Many things are discussed: Alice’s business and Tarrant’s, the health of Underland and the de-construction of the castle at Crims, their future Above and the proposal Alice plans to deliver to her boss in London...

  
“There are many delightful things in Upland,” Alice says, “and I’d like to discover them. We’ll sail the world and establish trade agreements with places other Londoners have never even _dreamed_ of! We’ll be the first to go, to see, to do...” She trails off with a smile at Tarrant.

  
“What a crazy, mad, wonderful idea,” he replies, just as he had when she’d mentioned it during the trip down the mountain, back to the city.

  
Yes, it _is_ a crazy, mad, and perhaps _wondrous_ idea. To live in the equivalent of a bathing tub on the streets... Yes, utterly crazy, simply mad... A wondrously irresistible idea!

  
“But that will wait,” she continues. “There are other things we must do first.”

  
Alice must follow through with her proposal, investigate this niche market Lord Ascot is so interested in developing. Tarrant must finish his contract, select quality goods to be brought back to England and the rest of Europe. And then after that... there is one more trip she would like to take before facing the Unknown...

  
Her musings and the smile she shares with Tarrant are interrupted by Bayard and his family bursting into the room. They are followed, at irregular intervals, by the arrivals of Mally and Thackery and Chessur and McTwisp and Tweedledee and Tweedledum...

  
Tea is served and drunk. Scones are tossed and nibbled. Tales are stretched and told. And when it is time to go, the queen makes a detour toward her potions cabinet and returns with a small, familiar-looking vial.

  
“Should you both ever decide to return...” she explains, presenting the small container of Jabberwocky blood. This time, Tarrant accepts it.

  
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He glances at Alice, his brows angled in inquiry. She grins. Nods. Tarrant smiles and slides the vial into his pocket. “I’m sure, one day, we shall.”

  
“Then we will look forward to that!” the queen declares. There are rounds of farewells that last nearly as long as the tea party itself had and when it seems there is nothing more that ought to be said, Tarrant reaches for Alice’s hand.

  
She glances down at the sight of their fingers intertwined, hesitates, and turning toward the queen, says, “Well, there _is_ one more thing, Your Majesty...”

  
“Yes?”

  
Alice gives Tarrant a wink and then, addressing the queen, asks, “I was wondering if we might impose on you for a couple bottles of Witzend wine.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

That night, when Tarrant arrives in her room to sleep across the threshold, he does not wear gloves.

  
Neither does Alice.

  
She does not ask him if it will hurt, this first touch, the neutralizing of the Jabberwocky blood in their bodies. He does not reassure her with words, but with a smile: he does not know what will happen, either, but it will be fine.

  
And it is. She grasps his bare hands in hers... There is a moment of numbing lightheaded-ness... And then everything is as it should be.

  
“Alice?” he breathes, mindful of the late hour, the sleeping patrons on the other side of the thin walls.

  
“Tarrant,” she answers and, leaning forward, presses her lips to his. It is a chaste kiss, for that is all it _must_ be here, now. Tarrant nudges gently at her lips with his own, releases a long, _longing_ breath. Their hands remain clasped.

  
It only lasts for a moment and then Tarrant pulls away and nuzzles her hair. “Thank you, Alice.”

  
She closes her eyes and answers, “Thank you for waiting, Tarrant.”

  
And although he still refuses to move more than a step beyond the threshold of her room, he wraps his arms around her and murmurs, “But of course I would.”

  
She stands in her most favorite place of all the places in both worlds she’s ever known: in Tarrant’s arms. Alice lingers for a time that will never be properly quantified because the use of clocks and other time pieces is not common here... and then, reluctantly, she steps away.

  
“Tomorrow, I’d like to talk to the captain.”

  
The significance of her declaration does not register, she sees; Tarrant merely gives her a nod and an agreeable smile. “Certainly.”

  
Alice steps away and climbs into bed. Just before she blows out the lantern flame, she comments in an offhanded tone, “Here in Upland, weddings can be performed by clergymen, civil judges, and sea captains.”

  
Even though she’s across the room, she hears his breath catch in mid-gasp. “Sea captains?” he confirms, completely overlooking the oddness of there existing such a profession as a _civil_ judge; Alice had nearly expected him to inquire if there are any _un_ civil judges.

  
Alice rolls over and smiles at him across the tatami floor that separates them. “Yes. Sea captains. Would you like to speak to Captain James with me tomorrow?”

  
His answering smile is utterly mad, his eyes frightfully luminous; she fears he’ll burst his seams at any moment.

  
“Yes, Alice, I would.”

  
And, the next morning, they do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samurai Pride::
> 
> In Japanese culture, during this time especially, it would have been inexcusable for one samurai to back down from a disagreement with another. In earlier times (even ten years earlier), a lower ranking samurai would have differed to his superior but during the political upheaval of the Meiji Restoration, submissive behavior would have been unlikely.
> 
> Mutsu Yonosuke would have been an ideal mediator in the situation that occurs in Chapter 7. He was the son of a high-ranking samurai but he had left home and did not owe his allegiance to any of the feudal lords. (He was a ronin, or an independent samurai. Many young men chose this lifestyle, actually. And they could get away with it due to their class privilege.) Mutsu very likely would have acted as a third and unbiased party in this situation (explaining that the foreigners were with him and are not causing trouble). Disagreements were often handled this way with some volunteer coming between two disagreeing members of the aristocracy.
> 
> (And, keep in mind that just because a man is a samurai, that does not mean he is wealthy. At various times in feudal Japan (when the government needed to raise money), people who could afford it were permitted to buy their title and samurai status. A samurai’s influence and affluence was (generally) measured by the amount of rice produced on his family’s lands. Extremely wealthy samurai reported harvests in the thousands of koku or bushels annually. The poorest lived in mud-and-thatch huts and reported between 5 and a dozen koku per year.)
> 
> Despite the enormous economic and hierarchical differences that could exist between different samurai families, the men all had at least one sword (from the age of 15 onward) and they had pride.
> 
> Saving face was extremely important and many men of the time were pressured into performing seppuku (a ritual suicide in which one disembowels oneself in front of an audience which consists of the injured or aggrieved party and witnesses) after which whatever transgression the samurai had committed is forgiven and no shame comes to his family. (If the samurai was sentenced to death and either could not bring himself to commit seppuku or his position among the samurai class was too low to warrant an “honorable” death, he would be beheaded. Beheading brought unbearable shame to the samurai’s surviving family members.) No one commits seppuku in my story; I'm including this to give you an idea of the value that was placed on pride in Japan at this time.


	9. Epilogue

Alice had never expected that she would be married on a ship with the bustling port of Nagasaki, Japan for a witness. She had never expected to find a man who would not only indulge her mad whimsy and wanderlust but _encourage_ it, want nothing more than to be a part of it, agree to a life spent aboard a small ship visiting strange places. She had never expected that she would marry _this_ man who is just mad enough to love her and just brave enough to free her. She had never expected anyone like Tarrant Hightopp to be her partner in life. Although, looking back on those frantic, adventure-filled days in Underland, she probably should have!

  
Captain James had refused to marry them without Helen Kingsleigh’s consent... at first. Luckily, being in the trade business has made Alice very persuasive – _delightfully obstinate_ , Tarrant later labels her – and the following day, the captain agrees.

  
The warm, summer wind plays with her hair as she slides the ring onto his bare finger. She fights back a blush – she is _not_ a blushing bride in white, after all; she is a trader in a blue suit! – but she can’t help but feel this ring that she’d fashioned from a lock of her own hair, braided and bound, is not... enough. She guides it into place on his finger with an apology: “I’ll buy you a proper one in Calcutta.”

  
Tarrant smiles, wry and indulgent, and then slides the ring _he’d_ fashioned from a corner of fabric – fabric that she recognizes as having been dyed up high on a mountaintop overlooking the Nagasaki plain – onto hers. “And I shall do the same,” he promises.

  
Useless, empty promises: when their gazes meet, Alice knows that no such purchases will be made, for neither of them has any desire whatsoever to exchange these humble tokens for gold or silver or gems.

  
That evening, they return to the inn. And when Tarrant arrives to guard her sleep, she takes his hand and leads him to her bed. He does not protest. The walls are too thin for what Alice would _like_ to do, so she contents herself with the warmth of his arms around her and his solid heat and undeniable heartbeat beneath the cloth under her cheek.

  
“Thank you, Alice,” he whispers and she smiles.

  
Yes, one impossible thing has been made possible: they have no more need for nightly good-byes. “It’s my pleasure, Tarrant,” she replies.

  
And it is.

 

*~*~*~*

 

This wine will be the death of her.

  
Alice leans back against Tarrant’s chest, and rolls the mouthful she’d sipped over and around her tongue, exhales and swallows.

  
“Does it compare?” he asks on a whisper in her ear.

  
She sighs: No, no it doesn’t. It compares to _nothing_ she has ever tasted in _this_ world. She doesn’t have to admit it aloud. His soft giggle tells her he Knows.

  
She opens her eyes and looks out across the valley. The goldenrod has turned rosy; dusk is approaching. They sit on the porch of their rented cottage here at a quaint and quiet spa retreat that overlooks a landscape of steamy hills and hot springs and volcanoes.

  
“Does it compare?” _she_ asks _him_.

  
“The wine?” he asks, kissing her cheek and gently nudging her head until she obligingly tilts it to the side so that he may press his lips to her jaw. She shivers, and not because her hair is still wet from her bath. She shivers because she and Tarrant have been married for over a week, have been sharing the same room, the same bed, and yet circumstances have not permitted... _More_.

  
Tarrant had asked Mr. Mutsu to recommend a place where a married couple could be alone together. (And for _that_ particular question, she is glad it had been Tarrant who had done the asking!) Their associate’s suggestion and a chartered fishing boat had lead them here: to a mountainous bay called Kagoshima.

  
“No, not the wine,” she replies, setting her tea cup of Witzend wine aside and closing her eyes. Hot shivers dance through her as his warm, bare fingers push her damp hair out of the way and he kisses the side of her neck. “The place. Does it compare to Underland?”

  
“In some ways, yes. In others, no,” he replies, undistracted from his survey of her skin. “Bu’ I hae’nae seen aul o’Underland.”

  
“We will,” she promises. “After we’ve seen this world, we will...”

  
“Aye.”

  
He inhales against her skin and she reaches for his arms. They’d both bathed, had both dressed in the lounge wear they’d been provided: simple kimonos with narrow belts that tie at the waist. The porch of their cottage, a bottle of wine the queen had given them, and the sunset had beckoned. Now, however...

  
“Tarrant...” she whispers. It’s not an interruption, but an invitation. Shyly, she moves his hands to the knot in her belt.

  
He moans softly against her skin. “Inside,” he rasps and she gasps.

 _  
Inside_...

  
“Yes.”

  
Her neck feels cold when his mouth pulls away, but his hands urge her up and his arms pull her close to his warm chest. The lapels of his robe have fallen open and Alice presses her lips to the revealed skin: his throat – oh, the scent of him makes her knees weak and some part deep within her _throb_ – his collarbone, his sternum. Her hands reach for the fabric over his belly.

  
“Alice...”

  
“Inside,” she agrees, lifts her face in silent request.

  
With a soft growl he covers her lips with his own. The kiss begins as so many others this past week have, but then... Her fingers clench in his robe as his tongue – hot, sleek, beyond sensual – caresses her lips open and slides gently past them.

  
He is...

 _  
… inside._

  
Alice shivers and dares to move her own tongue against his. He breathes in sharply and the kiss changes, deepens, heats.

  
Will it feel like this when that _other_ part of him is inside her? Will it be this... intense?

  
She is curious, but she does not ask. She delves into his mouth and seeks out a flavor unlike any other she has ever savored. It’s _his_ flavor. His and the wine’s.

  
He pulls back from the kiss but not from her. She can feel him against her hip, hard and erect.

  
Before he can ask if she is sure, she tells him. “Inside.”

  
His gaze is hungry but his hands tremble as he leads her across the threshold. When he leans away to reach for the sliding door, she spares a thought for their half-finished cups of wine on the porch. The taste of the Witzend wine had truly been beyond compare... until she’d tasted it on Tarrant’s tongue.

  
She glances over her shoulder. In the instant before the door slides shut, this is what she sees: the porcelain cups glow in the light from the setting sun; the surface of the wine captures a reflection of the sunset, peaceful and vibrant and golden. Another impossible thing: two sunsets, each in its own teacup.

  
She’ll mention it to Tarrant later. Or, perhaps, show him tomorrow. Now is not the time.

  
She has chosen him and he has chosen her. This is their time, now. To live. To explore.

  
To make the path.

  
Later, after the autumn cicadas have left the stage and the frogs have begun their chorus in the night, after Alice’s unasked question has been answered – yes, the feel of him moving inside her, joined with her _is_ intense... is very... _much_... much _more!_ – Alice opens her eyes to the gentle motions of Tarrant’s fingers playing in her hair. She stirs, smooths her palm over his bare chest and along his shoulder, learns the masculine curves of his arm.

  
Long moments later, he whispers, “Where shall we go next, my Alice?”

  
“After we arrive in London?” she confirms.

  
“Uh-hm.”

  
She closes her eyes, smiles. “I’ve shown you my path. I’d like to see yours.”

  
“Paris?” he asks after a moment, his fingers trailing along the edge of her ear now.

  
“And Vienna and Milan and all the places you’ve seen in between.”

  
He presses a kiss to her forehead and agrees. “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

  
Alice’s smile widens and she remembers his musings on the bustling, aromatic streets of Lagos:

 _  
“I imagine Paris would be just like this.”_

  
And, the following spring, when they arrive in the French capital, her arm through his, it is _exactly_ like Lagos. It is beautiful and brilliant and thrilling and so much _more_ than it ever could have been without someone to share it with.

 

 

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kagoshima :: This comes across as a honeymoon getaway, I know, but it really wasn’t. Actually, the previous year, Sakamoto Ryoma (the samurai who started Japan’s first Japanese-run trading company, see the note labeled Chapter 6-1) and his wife went to Kagoshima just after their wedding because Ryoma was injured right around that time in a sword fight and needed a place to rest and recuperate. His trading company (with which Mutsu Yonosuke was closely associated) was supported by the government of Kagoshima. Alice and Tarrant could have gone there with Mutsu’s endorsement. This part of Japan was very self-contained at the time and, actually, it was closed to most other Japanese people! I can’t even confirm if a posh hot spring resort with private cottages could have actually existed there. Not even my husband can check because there aren’t even records in Japanese about this sort of thing. So, I waved my handy Artistic License and voila! (^__~)
> 
> 2\. Sunset in a Cup :: The following prompt makes a brief appearance in the second “honeymoon” scene. Inspired it, actually. [Week Two: Writing Prompt - Imagery](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/1689.html) from [aiw_big_bang](http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_big_bang/) on Live Journal


End file.
